The virgin plays with her hair on top of the naked balcony.The railings hold her secret, they paint it white when the sun peers through the steeple and the soaring alley.
Beneath her, life exists, turning like a moon around the earthly, whimsical square.The old man coughs tyrannies - the pigeons revolt in distant lands - on benches of flames dressed in green time.
A man selling drugs from the corner of his eyes crosses to the opposite side of the street; what does he leave behind? What does he earn? His mother and his mistress descend from heaven to be by his side as he approaches his magical clique.
A son seeks his father, where the bronze halo meets the sky.He seeks him now more than before, for he understands how he found life in his lap.United by blood, by semen, by roads.
The streetlights will soon cast vigils over the limestone.
Dimness will creep up the widow's thighs: they will run into shelter.
And the sun makes the sea his mistress; bearig the burning eternity of the morning that must come.
And the virgin still plays with her hair, adorned in a nightdress which flows like waves of lace in the spontaneaous wind of evening.
And the city beneath her, ascends to its role as sole lord of night - it's priests, dressed in blue vests and a golden helmet with a peacock's feathers - come to sacrifice her to their protector of night.Altar of nerves.
She is perfect, for she is adored by the divinity that never sleeps, and not needed by those with faith in faith.
(Don't ever stop playing with your hair.)
Adding your comment: