at last
i can feel again...

if you climb silently into my skin
on a cold windy night...

Marielle grew up
in a slum and started work...

what i think of you is unprintable.
sometimes i think it is deeply unconscious...

forgive me but there are some days
in which the gods can't touch...

sometimes i'm out of my own flesh.
it is when i get lost between my bed...

she said we need a revolution
and a red heart...

i have your small hours in my favor
and as we pretend to be aloof...

it is just an empty page calling me
and poetry is born from this mistake...

I am glad i have something i don't owe
and it's been pretty hard to keep...

This pain is not only mine.
this pain is ours and...

This woman is not a woman.
she is a sort of bendable agony...