Matza Di Lourde

 

The poetic Passion 

I take everything from poetry, 

and so it is that through it, 

for you I strip myself, 

The sun, the wind, the woods, 

Christmas, Easter and Shrovetide, 

I take woes from poetry, 

The mother's pains, the grave, 

the wolf, The packs, the diners, 

And above all what you want

 from me what you think

I take from poetry the lyric, 

The soup, the sweets, the drama, 

The satire, the haste and 

what bloomed in the spring, 

The enemies of the Light, 

The veiled voice of my self, 

The love with which I made myself 

And the vileness of the whore 

who gave birth to them

I withdraw more from poetry, 

The Word, the Fountain, 

The Prince, The Bed, the Witches, 

and I only do not withdraw the gales 

because they are music in my ear

But my love, my dear, my most of all, 

my madman, my world, my poet, my star, 

It is to you that I build the poem, 

because there is not, no mountain 

on the face of this earth, no mountain, 

no mountain, greater than you,

 who has made himself a dwelling place, 

who has become a cove for you, 

for what I have already cried for you, 

I have already delivered seas 

and slopes to this Planet, 

And I add from you, the poetry of my days, 

made in the longing that I have left, 

to you, yes, my dear