BAROQUE HUMOUR

Walks the rain with the age
breathing the air of earth
looking seas of dead
with the temptation of ways.

Runs Bachus with his cup
-a bit of wine for fools-
drinking the divine nectar:
a dew on lips.

Helius is breaking up the heaven
with his everlasting rays
burning our senses
with the fever of September:

calculating heat of virgins
who hide their passion and eyes
of men who will never understand
the light of their lives.

Pierce my angles, dear sun,
with your fire full of ardour:
that burning flows through my naked body
smashed by your soul:

smooth and flashy warrior
who covers my fire,
who rescues my sign
gifted of life.

Trap my elusive soul
full of memories by songs
to make the music of love
in midst of your bright sun.

Spank my words
stocked of moans and doors:
Just pat my face
needy of your lovely work.

Running are thunderbolts
to catch the fever of love:
dying summer
that warms up every wound.

I'll be frozen later
without the presence of your weather:
alone one more time
remembering your faces.