In the storm of roses
the night is lighted by thorns
and the leaves that formerly lay on the ground in peace
are now screaming under their bare skin

screaming to welcome
love that is approaching.

Here,
in this barren land
(the asylum of imagination)
the silent call of nature is vibrating,
the secret gift is ripening.

Her enigmatic self-denial
in the winter’s solitude
transforms the bare symbols
(the glaring beauty of gazes)
into an eloquent miracle.

The wind
is agitating the foliage of the mind
with wet promises.

(The truth: two bodies
fighting on the moistened ground.)