If an official and a poet
loved the same woman,
what new implication would the cunning war they suffer have?,
and finally, where would it rest
victory, love?
The official with functions,
the poet changing his voice;
the two falling into pieces
against the fearsome love.
If I ask those present
which of the two suits them:
the disheveled ones for the poet
and the hairstyles for suicide
âand only I I bet everything on the woman.
We made love in the window
and the neighbor across the street complained.
You didn't know that, I didn't say it.
What window better got wet?
I didn't get to go to the sea, but I went to the town,
and in the place where your voice went
there was always silence, a great silence.
Nobody occupied your chair, your song.
You have to save those memories
of everything that was bad.
You have to save those memories
to save you.
There is a love that gives the daily,
that will understand you,
and another that sings and eternalizes,
that makes you transcend.
Everyone gives of what they have:
some give need
and others give words away.
We will see which lasts longer.
There is omnipotent love,
there is desperate love,
which cores the stones,
which is more seed than seed,
which is more plow than the plow.
There is the love of love of love,
there is love like a tomb.
There is the love of labyrinths
more complicated than a hat.
There is the love close to Christ.
My love has not been so tremendous
br/>not so wide
not so beautiful
not so sad
not so wise
not so alone
not so crazy
nor so everything
not even anything.
But he sings.

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