it always begins with
the face,
arms, then the body,
then back
to the lips again,
deeper
into the tongue
and even
to the throat
wishing to touch
the heart which
takes
so much effort of
your soul
you rush back to
the toes
and nape and
back
all these, triggered
by that unseen
force of love,
which slips despite
the force of ten
fingers
the neurons fail
and the lapses
begin, you compromise
with the
outburst and you
stop
thinking once again
the mystery
of that x that
can never be captured
and so back to
emptiness again
that God can
only fill.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem