They never departed
the garden of embraces.
And round the red rose
of kisses they travelled.
Hurricanes wanted
to part them with rancour.
And sharp axes,
and bony lightning.
They added to a land
of pallid hands.
They measured cliffs
impelled by the wind
between molten mouths.
They delved through shipwrecks
their arms each time
deeper in their bodies.
Persecuted, drowned,
by a great helplessness
of memories and moons,
of November and March,
they saw themselves blown
like inconstant dust:
they saw themselves blown,
but always embracing.