I listen to my life as if
it unfolded in the adjacent room.
I remember the closing door
when the space turned holy
by his fast breathing.
In front of me, below the little balcony
dead loves filling the sea
over which invisible pulleys
pull the islands over
the light-blue foreground of dawn.
For a moment, the night still
holds the muzzled day captive
and the house where Thrush was born
remained muffled on the ground.
Everything here that aroused us
will stay with their windows closed
with their foggy window panes-eyes
whatever dazzling touched our skin.
Then the seed of Eros fell
in the poem and
everything was transformed;
the tiring quatrain
the gray weather
and the wheelchair of the disabled
woman that panted
climbing to the stars.