Streetcar Named Desire

I am the prince of your madness dreams
The one who would never lie,
sprung
in the gold spell of your heir
that you brush with your whims.
He who would never commits
an unforgiving act
of deliberate cruelty.

I am the one who knows the saint in you
inside and out,
a virgin in the wrap of a tramp,

he who sees an angel
lost in exigences,
found in your glances,

clear wells
in between
the murky marsh of
your smashed eyelashes,
blooms of wisdom
bursting out of mucks,

a pearl
trapped in the nacre of an excruciating hurt,
in the shell of your unelaborated whor-edom,
the wisdom, the tear, the pearls of pain in your eyes.

I am he who sees your beauty
broadened beyond the barb weirs of wrinkles

I am the one who hears your music,
read the poetry of your eyes,
who
is intoned to the silence of your voice,
the lambs in your raves,

I see the crescent of your laughter
from the cracks of these walls.

I am he who
watches how you wash your heir
and sanctify your gold,
that you find
within the callousness of daily toxins,

he who sees your polished mirror,
who knows a real princess
even always poor,
is beyond the rich, in her heart,
for her truth
is always unforeseen and forbidden,

for a real gold
is always concealed and hidden.