En El Batir de Los Mares

From my sleeping fingers
to your silver leafed forgetfulness,
with hands of Greek touch
in the murmur of blind kisses.
And a god who invented
wants to pretend you're coming back,
in each new encounter
with life. That advances.
And that's how you exist
in the paraphernalia of days.
And that's how you exist.
In the beating of the seas.
On foamy rocks.
In the snapping of tongues
that savor wines and tempt mouths.
In the roar of seas.
On foamy rocks.
In the babbling of tongues
that savor kisses and fit mouths.
From my wounded hands, to you,
steel-dusted bread girl,
rare spark of life
that ignites my ancient longing.
I show myself to my newest god
persistent and distant
in each new encounter
with life. That doesn't wait.
And that's how you exist
in the uncertainty of some days.
And that's how you exist.
In the roar of seas.
On foamy rocks.
In the snapping of tongues
that savor wines and tempt mouths.
In the beating of the seas.
On foamy rocks.
In the beating of the seas
on foamy rocks
that tell me about you: leave her like that, happy liberated traveler.
Reflection in its ocean mirror
without a port to owe and without a sign
on sunny rocks.
And so I leave you.
Tender with loves, laughing eyes.
To a horizon in flames
of will-o'-the-wisps
in broken worlds
that you don't even know why they pretend in you.
And so I dream of you
wrapped in aquamarine,
of stones clashing.
That's how I dream of you.
Of that electric snap of your ways.
That's how you leave me. That's how I dream of you. That's how you feel me. That's how I find you.