I want to sing through your waist;
you, the daughter of fighting mists,
you, who play with a brass dish
filled with clean water

deepinsidetheabandonedbrickbuildings.

I want you to wait for my dog tongue
to come and find you and make a mess
of your unpowdered cheeks.

Since you make death sticky and real,
I want you to devour my life;
since you make me want to love
everybody, and I can't, I will love you
hurriedly and without hurry, my love,
who looks into the water and sees
a way to heal me floating
like a fish just above the sand.