Wanting to cry

Wanting to cry,

     almost crying.

I bring my youth in my arms,

the cloth of my blood

on which my heart rests hopeful.

Weak, convalescent, strange,

deaf to my voice, marked by fright,

I arrive to my youth like the leaves

the wind spins around trees.

I knew very few words

to define the strange events of my ravages.

Shadow and wound, lust, thirst and tears.

I come to my youth and I spill

myself on it like angry liquor,

the blood of a beautiful horse,

water on the thighs

of a woman with tight thighs.

My youth does not sustain me, I do not know

what I'm saying and what I don't speak.

I'm in my tenderness like sleep is in eyelids.

If I walk, I do so like the blind

learning from each step I take.

Abandon me here. I'm glad. I expect something.

I do not need more than a worthy dream,

and incessant failure.