This is the moonlight of reason, bright, cold and imperfect; the flowers of reason are
Dark; the moonlight, silver; the shadows of the paths kneel before me begging for hope
As if I were some holiness, kissing my feet, praising their kindness; mist ethereal and
Mystical dwell here where a symmetrical diamond of graves delimits the borders of
My altar, but I can not discern where the paths meet; the moon has no window;
It’s simply a lit face on its own stage, white like the prostitute’s neck, permanently
Disguised and diffuse; cheats the sea like an adulterous wife; she’s stand still, her eyes
Closed in total contempt; this is my home; once a week tears water the garden and two
Open mouths confess the crime; and at dawn, serenely, say their names; the breasts
Point to the top; have Gothic architecture; the eyes rise and find the moon; the moon is
My lover; she’s not as beautiful as Venus; her silver gloves untied great nocturnal beasts;
Oh God, if I could still believe in love…
The look of the spectre, dimmed by clouds, pouring on me, its sweet light;
Yes, I have stumbled on the journey, fallen by the path; stars flourish white and faithful
On the black body of the sky; in the sacred bed all of them are saints and whores
Hovering over crumpled sheets and pillows with delicate arms, their mouths and hands
Shut in chaste debauchery; yes, I agree, you’re absolutely right; the moon is not a witness
Of accusation or defense in any of this; is naked and fierce; and the testimony of the
Breasts is shadow; shadow and resignation.
