Matza Di Lourde

 

Shangri la

And if in the secret disorder  

From the interstices of the great 

hermit God

You told him about your vices

Of your fears and trades

Where they still remain broken

The Remnants

From this evening of time

In our long-awaited Shangri La

in which the most gifted 

In the arts of seasoning, they cook

with powder from oxalá

What you don't want to come to you

What you expect won't bend

with that other courtesan?

And if you confessed to him 

in a low voice 

That hides happy auspices 

That the future runs through you, 

let no one die,

that you get the benefits

of your plans for tomorrow

That were blown by the wind, 

that stuck to the dermis of time

of the one you've chosen as a villain,

Crying with artifice

The cauldron of your future

In the life that hangs down,

With astonishment, in the talisman

On your shoulder, on your chest

Of what's to come and in

Others' déjà vus

Without media scrutiny?

And if you sang me a hymn

Full of glory, apotheosis and solfeggio 

to rescue us a dose of hope and destiny,

And lift us up, by osmosis

To the Secret Rose Garden

where you pricked me with thorns, 

and stripped me of the brightness 

of my garment

of this longed-for madness

With your embrace and, beautiful,

Give me back, little by little

To the fate that the fountain has saved 

On these two fingers of prose

Between hot and Desire

The Impetuous Certainty

Of my love at your table