Free at last a woman is like a leaf
dreamily embracing the river.
Below the aestival torrent
the moon is hiding her silvery rage.
She hates her daughter
offering to drench her stalks in the cold flux.
When life muses heavily,
descends its jarring footsteps on trees,
it is only then that the leaf longs
for the stem from which it was rent apart:
The wind once blew off its whim on her.
She has never been a true leaf.
A non-leaf proposing to swig the river.
When she grows old, the overawed petioles,
the stalks drenched to the tiniest nerve,
the whole leaf stacked to blasé
will grow heavy and sink under.
The moon joins with her,
mother and daughter.
I was staring at the moon,
that ancient of all mammary landscape.
Soon, silence came of the river’s surface,
beneath which a woman.
My ribs were stolen like a tree:
ruddy stumps on its sides.
There are like hundreds of shoots and buds
strewn on a quiet.