Your body alone, yes, your body alone.

Your body alone, yes, your body alone.
Your body alone
And the light that filters through the blinds
Destroying the dream of your brow
Your body alone, yes, your body alone.
Your body alone
And the men that shout at you
Among the cement and rubble
At night and in the days that follow.
Your body, yes, your body.
Your body
And the answers that the shirt,
With the tie I do not wear,
Gives to this fugitive life
In the dawns broken
By the song of an irradiated cockerel.

My body alone, yes, my body alone.
My body alone
Or the day dreams of your cheeks
Or the lips of the perliferate oyster.
My body alone, yes, my body alone.
My body alone
Or your unimaginable hands
On my breast, drowned by depression
From the streets that don’t lead me to you.
My body, yes, my body.
My body
Decomposed in the tomb to be
Made present
In the oblivion of your nights…
And my hands…
So useless.

Your body or my body
Both lost in insensitive unions
In whitewashed, alcoholic amnesias.
Your body and my body,
Encased in beds of granite
Polished with the beak of a seagull
And chiselled with an otter.
(Its blood translucent on the stones and cement)

And you asked for oblivion.
Northern lights that fall upon my hands
Extended
; and you asked for death,
Dawns that fade before being born
; but your hands and your hair
Never forgot the smile
That fled from the photograph,
Robbing it of its colour.

(Translation by Mark Anderson)