Winged woman, stop your rancor:
the life that you bear of mystery
smells bad above the cushion
and moribund passes away.
Just so every proud tree oozes
love, behind your dark manures
that you spread of seed and of lust,
and pays at least for the seduction
of violated souls. Even so cantata
of the devil, you are an enemy of God
and then sullenly your lust
coagulates over the souls of heroes,
and you are young. You harm
all who see the path
of your peace and no one penalizes
you for the altar of your greatness
which makes offers to gods. As if you
were a goddess dressed in lust,
you call the gold into your arms
as I call the sons of the night.
I do not need money. I have need of feelings of words, words chosen wisely of flowers called thoughts, of roses called presences of dreams inhabiting the trees, of songs that make statues dance, of stars that murmur to the ear of lovers. I need poetry this spell which burns the weight of words that arouses emotions and gives new colors.
Love do not damn me to my fate Hold me open all the seasons let my great and warm decline not fall asleep along drives put in passive all the passions sleep on the pillow tenderly where grow provident ambitions of love and universal passion take my everything and do not hurt me.