THE TRAIN
The locomotive of my life
goes crossing slowly
or hurriedly the seasons.
Fourteen stops, fourteen years,
looking for you woman,
shouting your name,
woman, woman, beloved woman,
where are you?
I was tired
without a voice,
without hopes,
without knowing it,
without thinking of it
in forty-seventh station.
You were waiting for me,
dressed as springtime
with your aurora, with your beauty,
with your sweetness, with your passion,
with your patience and your arms
which give me true strength.
I am satisfied,
delighted with your love which grows
like a train of many cars.
You and I
are coal and the water,
our love is the fire
which makes vapor,
gives force to our engine of illusion.
Your love causes
a column of vapor,
to appear in me.
a whistle blast
which goes on shrieking
notes of happiness.
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