i did not
push through
giving her
that book which
in one of those
not so distinguishing
pages
i have written about
her, hmm,
her infidelity,
which if by chance
she too reads
it, she may after
all arrive at
the conclusion, that
here writes her
lover, her executioner,
deliciously
another congenital
liar, whose lips
are still luscious,
whose loins still
carry that fat of
love, that
strength of hatchet,
that length of
magnificent rod,
hot and unbending.
i should have
chosen, warm.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem