Rhythm of Passion.

In the roof of the word
several loves are playing,
but also a sombre color
like the flags of a lost battle.

To speak is to live another way
but also to die another way,
as thought to live were to die,
to die were to live.

In the root of the word
every love goes beyond what it loves
but comes back with a flower
imprudently dark
and knows that it can go no farther.

That is why, after the word,
in its root a space opens
where there is neither passion nor sarcasm,
a space out of which the most human absence
that inhabits anyone
can grow freely.