Balada De Los Amantes Del Camino De Tavernay

The room where my nightingale dwells
nourishes itself with the noise of my delay,
the songs of the street are folding
and the morbid clock looks on blaspheming.

Then the rain crowns its kites
and wets a star that agonizes among violins
and crowds its disheveled whips
on the back of my horse that hasn't pranced.

At night everything is clear if in its curtain
a hip sways that is guessed,
the mantis shakes her handkerchief
and lights up the signs where
my atavistic restlessness seeks a home.

The bed where my good wench waits
is warm as a womb and luminous,
coming from the rain and forcing doors
I appreciate that her desire is already awake.

The bed where I pour out my tributes
is where we banish the barrier of clothes,
is where somehow her sunshine
takes over my tongue so sovereign.

There we breathe each other with skillful luck,
there we shelter in case of death,
there I give her my gasps as a gift
and there she devours me with a thousand loves
taking the fresh flowers from my blood.

The bed where her soft pulp nests
is where my bird raises its neck
and where she stretches her clear way
loving me up close and biting everything.

Her bed multiplies my stature
which is the key with which I unlock her opulent deliciousness,
which is the fire with which I cast out her cold
and nest her moan when I want.

Coming from so far I am so deep,
so close to her inside and so deep down,
so eager and complete so squeezed,
so possessive and full so dedicated
that when the new day dawns it lifts me up...
...Drained...