When never is not eternal,
At hermit oxen` yoke
on the unploughed land
of soul fret,
The thirst is fiercely tightening my lips,
Behind the oxen yoke-
stoned land.
Then,
on heavy tears
we fight
weighing
Our love as yoke
far away
from
sin.

As if never is a little,
The letter drips down inside the ink,
Ending with rammed skin
On the pulp of the fingers,
In the fingers, through the fingers,
On the palm of your hand,
On the palm of my hand,
Through caresses
Of Plasticine and clay,
So many times
at one yoke.
As if sometimes is always.

Sometimes
I bury my dying egos
in nameless cemeteries,
But when I pass beside them
love
Walks slowly by and waters them,
They wake up
and she struggles she exists
like a delayed hero
like a forgotten menace
like a past flood
in every me from you,
as if sometimes is forever
and the ending, never.