This bliss of making you each day
Your measure biting on my side
Your word that remains silent
Your heart of light inside my darkness
Your hands on my divided flesh
The color of your eyes and hair
The air of your kiss and your smile.
Like a tree of blood, of my blood,
all this new life, of my own.
But, my son, who listens, who
awaits you? Who stands within the threads
of the next monday or within the dark
rumour of an unborn march or within
the blind spiral of the days
that are still undergrounded?
Who?
There are men between war and death.
A wind of guns sweeps the world
my son, I love you, right now, right from the deep,
sprouting from my flesh onto men just like a god,
like a flower so pure that I don´t want
to see your skin withered, that your smile
falls apart, that your bone flies
turned into ashes, that your blood
drowns into stone forever.
No!
I will dress myself with fists, even my soul!
I will put together swords out of my milk!
I will sharpen my screams until they cut!
I will place my peaceful life next to other peaceful lives!
I will place my peaceful hands next to other peaceful hands!
For you to be born!
For you to come and give your stroke!
