The Bird...

Pour mon oiseau de désert...
 

The light bird has open,

wide,
its wings,

taking advantage of the wind,
that,
awkwardly,

has risen in its density;

if the bird does not fly right now,

at this precise moment,

it will die, vanish,

among all the screams,

that a very dark forest is conducting…

I am that bird,

pushing hard to open up my wings,

and fly away, harder,

and get to you.

Because you are the warm breeze that my wings need;

to become tangible,
free.

I must fly to you,

sanity,

so I don’t lose myself into the ashes where I come from.

Fly through the sea,

that threatens my trip with its deep vastness.

I must fly into your eyes,

for they are my darkest secret,
my desert;

the desert where I want to lay,

lay on its soft dunes, like a wounded dove,

and, calmly, peaceful, fall in its quick sands.

The desert its redemption.

The sea dangerous.

The sea is deep, and full of creatures,

such as the one that has its own voice,
that lives inside my mind.

The desert it’s plane.

Lonely,
but beautiful, silent,

with only a few redeemed beings living on it;

having survived one of the gruesome deaths:

losing themselves in their own madness.

You are my desert.

I want to lay naked on the oasis of your body,

exhausted,
but thirsty still,

thirsty of your skin.

I will quench my desire with your saliva,

and  be fed by each one of your fingers.

I need to push my wings harder,

so I can take a final flight,
and I may reborn.

And be finally free,
flight without my wings.