On the tree of your skin I draw a summer memory.
I was a sculptor of whispers in love with your voice
in the stars dancing in the south of july ...
To the morning tides ,our languid bodies
like a volcano drowsy with some mixtures...
I loved these bougainvillea flowers
that a lighthouse called to shipwreck ,
off the porto Villa coast ...
Your lips snaked over salty lemon tequila,
designing rivers over the torrid miday sun ...
Space burns entangled time ,
in your arms ,midnight falling afternoon ...
Dawn of a july day ,blending the scent
of coconut with a Cook island perfume ...
During lovemaking ,always ,then who knows ?
My love, When the bottle is emptied
of its message of distress ,all that remains
is the wetness of regrets ...
What a delicious story your brown flesh tells !
Island girl on the sands of another dimension
that awakened the sensual melody
of an ipanema saffron -flavored july morning
when ice melted only in the Martini delta !
Space softens the wrinkles of time ...