A voice rises behind wild pupils and too human irises
(It) smells only the one who see brighter skyes in their dreams.
This hunger digs her circles under my eyes
between the heart's ventricles.
It chews the sinews to make thoughts thread their way lightly
incandescent child of the friction between
the inner spirit and the outside world.
After the April rain.
It's the needing of those who look for the company of oxymoron
and for the voices from the pillow, in the vigil nights.
It is the ardour of the ship that anchors only by the tempest
of those who love the sea.
It leaves the smell of wind on your hands
and spirals and tapes on your skin
it breathes inside the words of the lovers
It heals and then it hurts.