Year: 1970
This wound
Where dies the sea like a flesh sorrow
Where goes life to germinate in the desert
Which makes of blood the whiteness of the cribs
Which closes up at the marble of the tomb
This wound from which I come
This wound
Where my lip at dawn of love
Where beats your fever a bit like a drum
Where leaves your vine when pressing fingers on it
Where the shout comes, the same every time
This wound from which you come
This wound
Which closes up at the edge of boredom
Like a scar of the night
And which never stops reopening
Under some tears sharpened by desire
This wound
Like a sun under melancholy
Like a garden which we only open at night
Like a perfume which lags during the tide
Like a smile on destiny
This wound from which I come
This wound
Draped of silk under its black triangle
Where go the surveyors of fate
To build from nothing some assisted sorrows
While digging there for the sin
This wound from which you come
This wound
Which we would like sewn in the middle of desire
Like a sewing over pleasure
Which we would like to see close forever
Like a door opened on death
This wound of which I die
