Takes flight my musing, made an exhausted bird, to perch upon your hand, like upon a flower; its universe is your life, its sun your gaze, its foliage your head, your sadness its pain. Its chirping is your accent, your shoulders its mountains, your arms its pathways, its night your slumber, your lips are its fruit, its shade your eye lashes. A secret is your soul which it has not been able to hear.
It lives of your fragrances, for you are its Universe, and in your wanderings it flies by pure chance; its song carries the winged rhythm of my verse and its crystal-clear day is your ingenious rousing. Your hands are its roses, your dreams its madness, its delight your beauty, your youth is its April, your kisses are its breezes, your back its prairie, your hollowed hands its ivory cage.
Give it to drink your tears during your nocturnal hours.
Give it to drink your laughter during your precious days.
For you own your nights, and you own your dawning, like you own your youth and melancholy.
Run your hand over its plumage, make for it a nest made of roses, joining the two together; hands like cotton swaths, tender as bandaging, cruel for the “wait”, sad for the “farewell”
Takes flight my musing, like an exhausted bird, to perch upon your hands, like upon a flower; your life is its Universe, your gaze its sun, your soul its impossible, its youth your love