Ruminators of this absurd century
Dwelling in fake seas,
Castrated souls,
Devoid of strong feelings, of noble feelings,
Gliding unconsciously on shallow senses,
I painted a vivid picture once, a colorful painting where the absence of you made possible all perspectives,
Breathless lips of the unconsciously milky taste of the thousand looks,
Trills, thrills, trees that tremble in the face of the abundantly, seemingly superstitious sun,
Soft skin that is contemplated late, in matured places,
framed by a suspended desire to lick it, smell it, repose my eyes on it for days to come,
Soft skin that contemplated itself in its beauty, its power to attract from the deep trenches of the unspeakable tremors, tumors, tombs that have carried death into the other side of itself, into lifeless, formless souls who contemplate the meaning of assembling, uniting, monad-like qualities of the endless sun-like days on the extremely salty beaches of your green eyed infancy,
In it, {we} dwell!
