YOUR THREADS
Ariadne, with your healing fibres,
you are making me famous.
Behind us are the ropes
of the teachers, our poets.
I am just a man
who writes prose.
You are the morning air,
you are the earth, fire and water.
I am a soldier in the revolution
with an excess of sexual energy,
the bells of spring,
my violin comes to life with happy sounds.
To expose the tenderness
of your waterfalls, the rainbows,
to make love, seven or eight times,
with your body of milk and honey.
To fall asleep in your sea arms
stronger than butterfly wings.
To sleep your heavenly kingdom
until the break of dawn.
Translation by:
Monique James & Belkis Possamai