XXIII

To that part of you where the wind sings,
where, beyond habit, clear darkness is summoned,
I dedicate this night with its verses.

Because a ballerina resembles a tear
rolling down the cheek of dreams,
because your black netting, vaguely
unraveled by the day, holds me
to one half of your chest,
because light tells us
that your breasts, palaces of my nights,
are the same ones —full of reality—
that accompany me
when life is nothing like a dream,
when we would like to wake up.