MY LITTLE LOVE

My little love, you don't know it,
you can't possibly know it yet:
it's not your voice, the cold angel
of your mouth, nor your responses
to the sandalwood you breathe
and exude, that move me;
neither your ardent,
crucified virgin's stare.

Your eloquently expressed
anguish doesn't move me,
nor does your silent,
hopeless weeping.

Your melancholy gestures
don't move me;
nor your longing, your hope,
nor the wound
of which you talk, tormented.

It's your entire being—
your depicting your life
with such ungainly, cleansing
passion, that moves me,
like he who wants to kill himself
to be able to stay: I'm a suicide.

Leaf that hardly stirs
and already feels stricken:
I'm going to keep loving you
all day long.