a mark is made in one
of those bed covers,
tonight you have fully
understood the difference
between love and survival
between the flesh and
the idea, between us and
myself, this
otherness, which i cannot
penetrate, this warmth which
is a matter of need
than a memory,
i have only less words
to make you understand:
it is not always love
sometimes it is only time.
love is not always a chair
in the open sky,
it could be a moss somewhere
in a hidden stone,
it does not have a name for
it, and it insists that
it must always be a mystery
to us, even to myself.
the morning has not broken
the darkness of our nights.
there are dark skies beautiful
to see because they bring rain,
and rain, for the moment,
is all that we need most.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem