the south scirocco is now in the sand of dust
but i am old and lost the landscape.
my touch lost its eloquence
waiting for the artificial moons
following the moans of the heart of
old love fragmented by memories of pathos.
from the bloom of sea"s silence
blood then wind-like now as eternal return
into a lofty path as a walk of multitude
the sand remembers the blood types
she sees the palms of soul and of darkness
the sea dreams are dew on the pearled ears
breasts are made of sea-anemones and
paper- lilac virgins
flowing in moment of sight
the dunes have direction and remembrance
in the womb there are bloodlines and wind
sweet-scented like the mother's milk
white and blue memories with borders of blood
narrating and lengthening love and shadow.
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