the white-winged gull cries. distantly.
cries within. around. through. this flesh of mine. and my bread.
my love could be a ground nesting bird. if nothing.
the gull fixes my silence.
most questions lead to the surface. the evening air. your mouth. my loss.
this is the frontier of longing. coming back. as vital as dark. coming back to the origin.
these waves consume all carnivores and angels alike.
never have I collapsed so high.
higher than those cries of the white-winged gull. I am not the beginning. rage and music exceed the sand. you liberate the forces. their blue apparition. you raise my hands beyond reality.
sand bars and cliffs of my hours. fight within. guitars and violins. confused strings. your breath or my fiction of flowing. untouched. your song densely consists of Summers. nothing but Summers. and our finding the spring. near my coastely angst.
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Maybe birds dream within my Desiring Freedom and cross everything the closures of gardens, hearts, and manuscripts -
Eros, o Noturno. Eros, o Assaltante. Passas as horas sonhando sem nexo: Rende-te ou eu acabo-te! Canta-me ou eu grito! Beija-me ou eu devoro...
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