Didn’t you, covered in tan,
touching my lips in November with white,
promised me, as a gift,
oases of body and soul?
I know the world is imperfect!
Desires of indefatigable flesh,
on the field of harvest and battle,
whom will you bring tomorrow?
With you, passions will not cool
when having built them into a column,
I will throw in the desert
from the hollow of the breasts to the bosom.
Where nothing means the
trembling flesh of lack of freedom,
do not promise me to be hot:
self-immolation is not in fashion.
Where the drowning man is dry
in the oases of the white desert,
promise the freedom of spirit
for the triumphant body.
