Beneath my hands
your small breasts
are the upturned bellies
of breathing fallen sparrows.
Wherever you move
I hear the sounds of closing wings
of falling wings.
I am speechless because
you have fallen beside me
because your eyelashes
are the spines of tiny fragile animals.
I dread the time
when your mouth
when your mouth
begins to call me hunter.
When you call me close
to tell me
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want to summon
the eyes and hidden mouths
of stone and light and water
of stone and light and water
to testify against you.
I want them to surrender before you
the trembling rhyme of your face
from their deep caskets.
When you call me close
to tell me
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want my body and my hands
to be pools
for your looking and laughing.
for your looking and laughing.
Leonard Cohen*
*[Mr. LEONARD COHEN, cujo verdadeiro significado se revelou quando,
numa bela noite de luar à beira Tejo, tive o privilégio de assistir ao vivo, a isto: "ring the bells that still can ring forget your perfect offering there is a crack, a crack in everything that's how the light gets in..." e a isto: "love is not a victory march it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah..." ]
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