XIII

The pines have reached their pensiveness.
Your loneliness, so poorly documented,
ignores that people roam the street
a little more naked
and that skin opens to a sky
of tumultuous blue,
half song, half false coin.

And over the fields,
spring returned
under the transparency of a dress
or in the ambiguous garden
that rests
—startled by blackbirds and swifts—
with life against the wall of the house.

Only in you, like shadows,
do the intuitive bodies rise,
the halfway footprints of the birds,
that foreignness
of their games in the navigable air.
                      And you watch them rise,
maybe disappeared,
scheming in the branches where love schemes
to write the verses
born of us
as a shipwreck is born of the sea.

You represent two things:
sadness and beauty,
limitation
and the wings of a dream.