Maturidade

Ô.

Ô.

Ô.

Otário.

Rage

The snakes in me
they twirl
below my heart
knitting with my bowels the fire
that boils my innards
that slithers upwards

That explains the knot in my throat
That explains the blood in my eyes

A feast

The white of her eyes:
the milk of my morning
The black of her iris:
my coffee

When hunger strikes
I take a bite
of the music on her lips
This bread that she is
God, it leavens me

The food of love,
play on