On Borrowed Time
On Borrowed Time
I slept in a labyrinth
made of milk and honey
until by chance, you woke
and wore me down with your
hands. I was a boy
prisoner
among your changing walls.
Time, insinuating itself on
your body, a cloud of dust.
Thus my uncultured grief
is new now.
New, as if I were the first man
that fell with his love from paradise,
as when I saw such a sky already conquered
by shadows aging my beloved's body.
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