Vênus

When your voice told me: let's go
I saw god sitting on his throne: Venus
The religion that we both invented
Deserves a definitive maybe... at least

Notice that what defines me
Is always this beauty
That flows from your way of looking
From your way of giving love
Giving me love

I didn't give you anything impure
In the future it will be the same
If today dawned a dark day
It was because I captured the sun for myself

Notice that what defines you
Is always this beauty
That flows from my way of looking
From my way of giving love
Giving you love

Notice that what defines us
Is always this beauty
That flows from our way of looking
Our way of giving love
Giving us love

I'm not talking about romantic love,
Those passions dripping with sadness and suffering.
Relationships of dependence and submission, sad passions.
Some people confuse this with love.
They call this slave-like desire love,
And think that love is something
That can be defined, explained, understood, judged.
They think that love was already ready, formatted, whole,
Before being experienced.
But it is exactly the opposite, for me, that love manifests.
The virtue of love is its potential ability to be built, invented, and modified.
Love is in eternal motion, at infinite speed.
Love is a mobile.
How to photograph it?
How to perceive it?
How to let it be?
And how to prevent the sedentary and tired image of love from dominating us?
My answer? Love is the unknown.
Even after a lifetime of loves,
Love will always be the unknown,
The luminous force that blinds and gives us a new vision at the same time.
The image I have of love is that of a being in mutation.
Love wants to be interfered with, wants to be violated,
Wants to be transformed at every moment.

The life of love depends on this interference.
The death of love is when, faced with its labyrinth,
We decide to walk the straight road.
It offers us its oceans of turbulent and deep seas,
And we prefer the bed of a river, with a beginning, middle, and end.
No, we cannot underestimate love and we cannot castrate it.

Love is not organic.
It is not my heart that feels love.
It is my soul that savors it.
It is not in my blood that it boils.
Love makes its Dionysian bonfire in my spirit.
Its strength mixes with mine
And our little sparks echo through the sky
As if they were new-born stars.
Love shines.
Like a colorful and mysterious dawn,
Like a twilight flooded with beauty and farewell,
Love screams its silence and gives us its music.
We dance its happiness in delirium
Because we are love's favorite food,
If we are also devouring it.

Love, I don't know.
And that's exactly why I desire it and throw myself into its abyss,
Venturing to meet it.
Life only exists when love navigates it.
Dying of love is the substance of which life is made.
Or rather, one only lives in love.
And the language of love is the language I speak and listen to.