We tire of everyone, everything;
Soul has departed from us, Zombies…
Since memorial times we’re born dead;
Sadness, despair, and void in the head.
Sure, a dancer, an expert motion doctor,
A hijacker of the skies, the Jackass of the talker,
Will eventually be able to fully eat the fruit,
The ostentatious secret, that is not to be found in Harry Potter.
Flamenco was heating my blood
As I was remembering warm tears,
Morning warm tears, under the sun,
Within my computer, in front of Nina.
Nina comes always back, ever powerful,
Ever fragile and ever supple and strong.
And, even if my nude poem finds no closing,
No definitive rhyme,
It exists as a witness,
A trace of the crocodile tears
That only a peach musician woman could call.