to embrace this kind
of thing
first you have to throw
away your
education out of the window
as though, after all those
years, it is something
to be dreaded,
then you throw too
your future and so you
eventually have none
but the present
what past do you have?
nothing, since you have
to deny what really
happened on that indian
summer
now you are an empty
glass, and what are you
waiting for?
the hand that pours the
wine
the lips that must touch
the edge of your
glassy existence
the tongue that must
taste you
the mouth to drink you
into the night
what if you finally break?
so, you have to know,
how passion works....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem