FRUIT

Fruit tree vision. It offers to my fate
honey and lavishes aromas.
I, lichen of love, climb up
crazy in the urge to bite his pomace.

My life rehearses its spiral of anguish.
I hope about the roads:
I die in the desire to empty his glass
and tie myself under the cluster of it!

Her blond apple is poisonous,
mouth of the sun that shines with blood.
My life burns if in my thirst for fire
I sink my lips into the honey of his soul.