An attempt at the dot's Blood
The dot had gone out through the door.
She was a black honey.
So, all the time's flies followed her.
The dot was a jewel
As big as an apple
Borne by a child amazed with her brightness.
So, all the town's thieves followed him.

The dot was a dream full of wonderful warmth.
She came as a substitution
For my orphanage and craziness.
So, all the moaning poems, survived and dead
Followed her.
The dot was a child / woman.
She came out to me with two mysterious breasts,
Two wonderful eyes,
Two absent lips.
So, all the world's beasts followed her.

The dot was a light enveloping everything.
A light erupted to lighten
My childhood's darkness.
So, all the world's darkness tried to kill it.
The dot was my dot.
But when we had played
As two charmed children
On the red bed of lust,
The dot turned into a myth,
Then into a mock,
Then into a clown.
And when time had bitten her with his fang
She turned into a big circus
With neither a beginning nor an ending.

The dot was open-handed
To the degree of madness.
(I remembered she decided to burn herself
If I left her without a letter).
But I left her as any crazy one
Who could not control his heart's beats.
As he was groping the great Lira's box.
And when my repentance turned into a myth,
I could find nothing to burn myself with
But my cold letters.
The dot caught the sun with one hand
And the dream with the other one.
But when I kissed her,
She decided to give me
A spoonful of the world's sun
And a glass of the bed dream.
But once I tasted the warmth of the sun
I burnt out my boast.
When I touched the bed glass
My youth grew magic with my youth.
So, how could I write my poem
After both the spoon and the glass
Had dropped from it?

The dot was the blood of beauty,
The blood of adolescence,
The blood of lust,
The blood of the knives,
The blood of tears,
The blood of myth,
The blood of the slain bird.
The dot was my blood;
I am the waxen statue!