It is to my consign
That I must give allowance
To the earth’s hunger.
She flooded the newborns, their milk,
Drawn from the sea of her flesh,
White as the stains of purity
Once enveloped between her legs.
To one single liability,
That she must turn to ash,
To be gathered
By the storm with its herding winds.
I have, at my back
The urge, the force
To plunge myself
Deep in her silk.
Just a straw upon the road
That carves the petals down their center.
I seduce myself
With the cries from my open mouth.
To her funeral, there is departure,
To the earth, there is welcoming.
I live upon the roads that sail me
Towards the apocalyptic meeting.
Straight to God
With His gleam,
With His arms about my fading sides,
With His breath about my swollen shape,
Like a ghost grown larger by the heart,
Though tormented by the mind.
I leave a teardrop
To trail towards the end of the world.