The ear is a muscle,
it got stronger, time not stoppin,
listening to whispers or speeches from other centuries.
It is the wick-ingredient of the embrace that you oppose to my heaviness.
And it clings to my soul,
which clings to my soul,
which clings to my soul,
which shivers outside,
all the way to that other organ: flesh.
Dearest ear,
You belong to someone I lust and try to seduce, all the while verbally lacerating the air that separates you from my mouth,
a place, I admit, sometimes inhabited by vanity.
May they soon sever, in a hybrid violence bearing the most fitting name, the chastity that belongs to it, to that ear.
I can see it there; I can hear it too: a wind has risen at the nape of the neck.
It has awakened the soft downy skin, lovely, that very soon I shall taste.
That wind, which caresses the invisible, reaches me as an echo.
Where are we? I think we are at the centre of a country.
And I would like to become a mountain, gather all your waters like joyful offerings, irrigate the torment, the torments of desire, until they become Loves.
You oppose me, yet you penetrate me.
All the stories you have heard have settled into your manners, your gestures.
And now it is you who modifies me.
You keep alive the overflowing gold within your sounds, shouted toward me (I dare believe), making my muscle swell.
Let me, too, believe myself eternal for a moment.
Never mind if I wither quickly beneath the breath of your gifts.
I shall remember it, beautiful one, even in the hardest moments.
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