You came, love, from a time
when I didn’t even know what time could be.
Reflections, obscure faces on surfaces
limpid, merely, in the purity of a deep dream
in all I sought you, in all I saw you
saw you unmistakably in all the mistakes.
You came, love, from a dream
where I didn’t even know that dreams
awaken on lips and in arms with the warmth and the forms
of all hopes, of all despairs:
those which we desperately don’t want to lose
and those that lose us, in spite of hope.
But you came, love, and time and dream
took, both, as if they were one
body and soul in a sigle reflection of a single face
and a single find – my face in yours
your find in my own.
The surface drank the stars in the end of time
and the depth delivered dream in birth of dew.
It was, love, our first day
with lips merged in a sigh of infinite.
In our face, the reflection, whole
widened in light by the soul of fingers
touching the dream.
