A man,
Coming from his daily battles,
Fighting against so many enemies,
But mostly having battles with himself,
Needs a tender woman, needs her caress;
I humbly bow at her feet
And let her hands make their way into this soul of gray,
Let her fingers give the colors back to my body of clay.
Hearing the night song
Under the moonlighting caressing the windows
Of this serene voice of my Lady of meadows;
Learning her touch from her perfume
Leaving her skin into this body of mine made dune
Where all the sands are melted by her steps,
Where all the winds obey her voice - as their mistress.
The stories are quietly spoken over the fire that burns
The silence makes its way - onto the desert - coming from north.
