THE RIDDLE OF OEDIPUS

Some time (it was certain) we were going to meet
face to face. For on that solitary night
I was weeping remembering your image. For in you
life does not seem dangerous to me, and the love
I have for you —like the very truest— can never be named.
It is also quite certain that at other times I would have
wanted to lose you completely or to feel you at least,
kind and distant. But you know how much I need you
and that I dream of us together, like extravagant birds
in luxurious salons. There were (I recall) journeys we shared,
once again frustrating and sweet, like an old love.
I don't know what to call you. And If I love forms and beauty,
it is perhaps because you block any other passion.
You are the ground, the humus of the earth, the homeland
that transcends your hands, a heated ooze,
abyss of sensitive matter. And yet
I would wish, with that, your eyes forever, the sound of your voice
so well defined, the names you tell me when you thirst
is delirious, and your immense tenderness, your profound affection as of
fire, while I touch your nails and your hair and I know you as you:
Marvelous being exactly whose arms embrace me and take care of me.