a poem about love
Lost landscapes and dear phases
are my only solution to all this temporaneity.
And love is like a far religion,
where you just follow the belief
not knowing exactly when all your hopes will be satisfied –
but people still think I am not a religious boy
but, Jesus, I am
and all my words of love speak for myself.
It is like a wordless speech,
but that explains all secrets of the world.
I idolatrized desecrated baptisms
and walked the Whore of Babylon’s street
with all those stones against my body,
with all those thorns around my mind.
Like a beautiful – but at the same time critical – inquisition,
your people were sleeping sweet dreams
pointing at me and letting my sins being selfishly crucified.
I am a martyr
but not a saint.
Your judgment tastes like a blasphemy
for a full mouth like mine:
But I still believe in you,
I still believe in your war against the crowd
because my love is the purest form of monotheism
and it desires you.
So, when I will be down on my knees,
you will know what is into my prayers.