Waiting for the expectation

"The mouth in my nose feels
a powder taste: last of the feast."


Descends in tender folliages the hill -
In glauquous tones, distended and asleep
That heal with fresh my fired eyes
Where the flame of fury declines.

O, come! In white! From the innermost site!
Your hands, light, the branches apart,
Come! My eyes want to see you!
Brided in my eyes where you see you!

Branches mad, a stick in your finger
How rose a tiny plum, a dot, is born from this kissing,

Sweet the breeze, flowing dress,
Come! In white! From the innermost site!
Soul of sylph, camellia´s bright,