My eyes are full of me
like a woman sick of infidelity
someone collects them and pass them over.

I have no measure in love
apparently, neither have I in pain,
the emptiness inside me delights in lust.

The last time I picked the fruit,
hoar had fallen over the orchard and I was in a hurry,
I spent the night in the imprudence bed
and felt no shadow.

By sliding the days in the winter cage
I kept gazing at the window
as if I was in another world
without knowing how and why I came?