With you I'm begun,
no more a phantom,
a real one,
not a disguise,
always anew in lieu of a rerun.
With you I am always me
not an appellation to recognize,
so I sell my heart to you
because there is a true customer
in your eyes.
In this bruised ambiance of exile,
in these shopping isles,
-that in them there are no more stockpiles
of pristine smiles,-
new arrived laughters are feigned and vile,
for sweetness is out of style,
I look at you
and my heartbeats brim over
like gushing gullets of singing sparrows,
like blue lilies of the Nile.
I give my heart to you,
this beehive
suckling your iris to survive,
fireworks of beauty in your taste buds
rather than in your eyes,
turning thirst to floods,
turning blooms to honey
in lieu of butterflies.
