I awake under the cap of a mushroom.
Its spores surround me like stalactites hanging from the ceiling of a cave.
Rubbing his forewings, a cricket chirps.
Is that you calling for me?
I know it’s you. You must be hiding in the grass!
Every evening I’ll bathe your body in milk and honey.
Every morning I’ll dress you in a cloak woven from mulberry silk. I’ll grow wings around your ankles, so you can fly above the Himalayas.
Late night I’ll rub ginger oil onto your skin; every stalactite will fall in love with you.
At midnight when the Siamese purrs on my left thigh, I’ll dip my fingers into rose oil and mend your wounds.
We’ll kiss in the fragrance of leaves, roots, and ripened berries.
Why aren’t you answering?
Where are you hiding?
the juicy fruit of love lies open on a heavy silver tray: its pulp is orange, and its seeds are red
under the alabaster moon, like in the mist of secret sermons, your humid fingers design blue petals on my fragile body
drapes made from the feathers of forgotten purple honey-creepers sleep virginly into the breeze coming from the west
on checkered marble tiles cicadas sing the first Chopin nocturne in B minor
little fairies with big eyes dance tarantella in the air
i see into the purple of your lips the shadow of the woman you will love
let me watch the little fairies eating from the fruit of love
when they are done we’ll run into the meadows where trees sleep, and rivers stretch like cats
there on the silky grass will bite together from the alabaster moon
and our love
into another century will bloom
I run into the garden of my dreams. The sky opens, the marigolds yawn, and then change colors.
Silence. The silence of the night when my head rested on your shoulder; the night in which the North Pole caught fire melting like a piece of butter on a heated pan.
An African violet beats her eyelashes at me. A second then she shrinks into oblivion. Her memory floats on my retina.
Spanish moss lingers on the murky waters of the Bayou.
A purple honeycreeper starts singing.
Smell of fresh cocoa penetrates my nostrils.
Old wounds crawl on my skin; columns of ants locking for honeydew on a tropical tree.
I fight back.
Your eyes turn from black to blue as they always do in the heat of passion.
Wait… I am not with you anymore. Who is with you? Sheets of time undulate; lonely drapes in the ocean’s breeze. I cannot see who is with you!
My breath accelerates.
I start running.
I hit a tree root.
Millions of colors burst into my eyes; pieces of time flow over the forest.
The sky closes. Marigolds cry.
Where are you?
I open my eyes.
Over the night an enormous spider transformed the canopy of the bed into a cobweb made from white diamond dust.
I can see you through it.
You are by the lake.
My royal purple lotus floats silently on the surface of the water.
Morning dew adorns the grass.
In the music room the piano starts playing.
A bunny jumps on my bed. Is that one of your tricks?
Indelible memories of a night in which your hands touched my body come alive.
Silk embraced by skin.
You dive and swim toward the purple lotus.
One of your fingers touches its petals.
My pupils dilate.
I didn’t tell you. There is a love curse. He who touches the lotus…
I can’t hear my voice anymore.
The music hits a crescendo.
The lake freezes.
Through sheets of ice Merlin, the Wizard, smiles.
my body arches
under the weight
of your passions
like a young branch
under ripened fruit
it smells old books
rain and baked sweets
between your heart and mine
the Easter of Roses
come back to me my prince from unknown lands
where orange suns flame tops of granite mountains
your pain will disappear into the néant
i’ll read you ancient legends on the beach
in nights when mermaids’ voices crave lost heroes
for you I’ll stop the ebb and flow
i’ll make the sun to set on eastern temples
i will transform my body in a flame
in moonless nights like shooting stars
your hidden passions on my skin will glow
come back to savor ripened mango from my hands
when the piano plays nocturnal rhythms of love
when purple jacaranda is in bloom
and fresh hibiscuses sleep on my pillows
we’ll wait in silence for the skies to open
the waves will build an altar on the ocean
gold fish will crown my head like precious diamonds
in ocean’s spumes my body will be dressed
come back to me my prince from fragrant dreamy lands.
He once said: “A city becomes a world when one loves one of its inhabitants.”
Well, I would like to know what makes a desert a world.
Once one steps in a desert one understands that the only love that can make the desert a world is the love for the desert itself.
It’s cold. It rains dry frozen stars.
There is no world without you.
The camel looks at me awkwardly.
Lawrence Durrell, Justine: “A city becomes a world when one loves one of its inhabitants.”
In the juicy pomegranate pulp – at the core of my being – I looked for me.
Instead I found you.
A red sunset coiled his flames around my fingers.
I touched you.
Your lips touched the sweet wine of Madeira.
In the grand scheme of things love was bestowed on us as an acute reminder of the inexorable power of Providence.
Tell me I’m wrong.
the bed grows fragrant roots
the night flavors mango juices
candles flicker on yearning bodies of fated lovers
riverbeds of dry wrinkles
no one writes to the colonel
in a corner
from a cacti’s areola a flower grows
the night whispers rapid drops of rain
“i don’t have a throne, my queen
or somebody that understands me” *
over and over
your voice plays
on my fragile skin
“no tengo trono ni reina
ni nadie que me comprenda”
Luis Miguel Gallego Basteri, “El Rey”