there is something
rooted to your nerves
wracking, something springing
from your head
an idea of desire, lacking
the luster of a perfect image
of love and pleasure, something
hovers on your hair
the locks feel this, and the eyes
are closing like some lights
turning off, preferring the dark
in this endeavor, owning this and
giving it back, and then shadows
dance and fuse, and there you are
not saying anything, looking beyond
still never caught.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem