Dialogue

From which window of the night sky had the moon sat watching the image of love? The image of love on your hands on my hair in a bed of earth in a bed of earth... That night all the windows with heavy, smoky curtains the cloud had covered. That night the gaze of morning was red from weeping. Had the sincerity of that patch of earth toward the tragic understanding of a deception drawn it near? In your gaze along your extension had it its own grievous duality upon the breast of the false dawn perceived? Perhaps the slippery, fleeting span of love in the hands of death it knew as a plaything - like the expanse of a charming, short-lived mirage in the dry eyes of truth. Perhaps the sound of repeated shots - at every dawn - to perpetual mourning had made it addicted, or the feeling of light the fear of the certain withering of the garden’s flowers had stolen from it. Perhaps no one had told it: the thought of the decline of flower and earth and sun is a vicious circle and love, love never inside the circle of zero does it move. That night, all night, when stopped time with shapeless, smoky curtains had taken from us the share of the smile of moonlight and water and the eyes of morning were red from weeping I lovingly conceived from your extension in a bed of earth in a bed of absolute infinity. From which window of the night sky is the moon sitting watching the image of love? Your seed behind the armor of warm cells fresh cells full of milk I have hidden. I have lodged it, silently. No! The dejected, despairing morning does not believe that you grow inside my body and are born and bear fruit. Ah! the cloud still withholds from us, freely, the simple smiles of moonlight and water but look look the growing of the seed under my skin I feel it I feel it...