Now nobody is really listening to me,
but I want to make a song to my love.
Since I have not had lasting loves,
nobody is going to think I'm talking about yes
when I say things of the hug,
of farewells and kisses.
The kiss of which I speak
I could have given it to my guitar.
Faces are like seasons,
they pass full of yellow leaves,
of burning suns, of enveloped winds.
Nobody has stations under his belt.
Everyone stays under their skin
hot.
The heat and the breeze cavort outside,
the truth and the lie frolic outside,
the projects of heaven, the patience of time,
a shadow in which you think you see the light,
but both the aurora and the cross are outside.
It is air that is breathed and that is left:
stays.
Here I am speaking at the same pace
from many directions, from a thousand obscurities
that have served to undertake hugs,
sites where so many bodies have been shot
empty or full.
Why describe the hair of love,
if the hair of love changes shape.
Why pronounce the vain strokes
with which I sometimes discover the bewilderment.
I do not say, I do not speak.
I do not describe the laughter of love,
Well, if he said that his laughter dawns
in the good gloom of a deserted street,
that there is a sun submerged in their terrible lips,
my eyes were hands in the dark,
and not:
they are eyes, despite everything
my eyes are eyes.
My love exists and never combs
neither laugh nor look.
It is love only.
Only love.
(1969)
Only among all we can make this a better place :)