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Volume 3: With a blow of destiny, the king appears Chapter 64: Searching for the sound of your feet flowing

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    You and me, my lover, let us seal the silence together, when the ocean destroys its endless statues and knocks down its impetuous white towers: because in the invisible fabric of long waves and rolling sand and stones, we support our independence.  Tenderness that is once and for all.

    I want to see your mouth, your voice, your hair.  Silently and hungrily, I wandered the streets.  Bread cannot nourish me, dawn divides me, and all day long I search for the sound of your flowing feet.

    I long for your slippery laughter, your harvest-colored hands, your pale jade-like nails, and I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

    I want to eat the sunshine shining in your lovely body, the supreme nose on your proud face, I want to eat the fleeting shadow on your eyelashes.

    I move around hungrily, sniffing the rays of light, searching for you and your burning heart, like a jaguar in the wilderness of Kitladu.

    Plump women, fleshy apples, the scalding moon, the rich smell of seaweed, mud and pounded light, what kind of dark brightness opens between your columns?  What kind of ancient night does the man touch with his senses?

    Oh, love is a journey with water and stars, with the drowning atmosphere and the storm of flour; love is the strike of lightning, two bodies surrendered to a kind of honey.

    Kiss after kiss I wander through your little infinity, your borders, your rivers, your little villages; and the reproductive fire - how delightful it becomes -

    Quietly passing through the narrow blood channel, until it pours out quickly like carnations at night, until it seems real and empty, like a light in the dark.

    The light that rises from your feet to your hairline, the power that wraps your delicate body, is not mother-of-pearl, not cold silver: you are made of bread.  The bread of fire's love.

    The grains are piled high in the harvest season, and in you the flour ferments in the happy season: when the dough makes your doublings rise, my love is the coal waiting in the earth.

    Ah, your forehead is bread, your legs are bread, and your mouth is also the bread that I swallow, the bread that grows with the morning light.  My love, you are the flag of the bakery,

    Fire teaches you the lessons of blood. You realize your holiness from flour, and learn your language and fragrance from bread.

    I love you.  But don¡¯t think of you as a rose, or a topaz, or a carnation arrow shot out of the fire.  I love you like something dark, secretly, somewhere between shadow and soul.

    I love you as if you will never bloom.  But it is a plant that contains the light of a flower; because of your love, a certain specific fragrance rises from the earth and lives secretly in my body.

    I love you.  I don¡¯t know how to love, when to love, and where to start loving.  My love for you is straightforward, uncomplicated and unarrogant; I love you that way.  Because beyond that I don¡¯t know.

    What other way is there: Where I don¡¯t exist, you don¡¯t exist either.  So close, the hand you put on my chest is my hand, so close, you close your eyes when I fall asleep.

    My ugly one, you are a dirty chestnut, my beauty, you are as beautiful as the wind, my ugly one, your mouth is so big that it can be two, my beauty, your kisses are fresh  Like watermelon.

    My ugly man, where did you hide your breasts?  They are as dry as two cups of wheat grains.  I would rather see two moons across your chest, two huge towers of pride.

    My ugly one, there is nothing like your toenails in the sea. My beautiful one, I have cataloged your body, my dear, one by one, one by one, one by one, one by one.  :

    My ugly one, I love you, I love your golden waist. My beautiful one, I love you, I love the wrinkles on your forehead. My dear, I love you, I love your clarity, and I also love your darkness.

    ¡°My love, I often love you but I don¡¯t see you, I don¡¯t remember you, I don¡¯t recognize your gaze, I don¡¯t know you, a cornflower that grows in the wrong place and is exposed to the sun at noon: but I only love the smell of wheat.

    ¡°Perhaps I have seen you, imagining you raising a glass of wine, in Angel, reflecting the moonlight of the summer night, or you are the waist of the guitar I am playing in the shadows, the guitar that sounds like the roaring sea?

    I love you but don¡¯t know it, I¡¯m searching for your memory.  I broke into the house with a flashlight and stole your photo, but I already knew what you looked like.  suddenly,

    You are near me, I touch you, my life stops: you stand before my eyes, reigning like a queen.  Like a bonfire in the forest, the flame is your territory.

    Before I love you, ah love others, I have nothing: I am stubborn on the city street, swinging between items: everything has nothing to do with it, and there is no name: the world is composed of waiting for the air.

    I know the dusty rooms, the tunnels where the moon lives, the harsh hangars where people are laid off.?Sticking to the doubts in the sand.

    Everything is empty, dead, mute, degraded, abandoned, decayed: everything is strange beyond imagination, everything belongs to others and belongs to no one, until your beauty and poverty bring rich gifts to autumn.

    Neither the color of the terrifying sand dunes of Iquique nor the mouth of the Duce River in Guatemala can change your silhouette that surrenders to the wheat fields, your figure as plump as a grape, and your mouth like a guitar.

    Oh my sweetheart, since the silence of all things, every beautiful scene on the earth, from the hills dominated by tangled vines to the desolate silver-gray prairie, has been a replica of you.

    But neither the timid hands of the mines, nor the snows of Tibet, nor the stones of Poland, can alter your beauty, your wandering grain:

    ????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????? The clay or the wheat, the guitar or the bunches of fruit, clinging to their territory in you, carrying out the dictates of the savage moon.

    You are as simple as your hand, smooth, simple, small, transparent, round, the lines of the moon, the paths of apples, as slender as wheat grains.

    You are as blue as the night in Cuba, with vines and stars in your hair.  You are vast and yellow, like lingering in a golden church in summer.

    You are as small as your fingernails, with subtle curvature and the color of a rose. Until daytime, when you are born, you disappear underground, as if sinking into a long tunnel of clothes and chores: your clear light fades, you put on your clothes and fall.  As many leaves as possible, it becomes the hand again.

    You come from the poor south, from a poor home, that harsh region known for its cold and earthquakes, learning life among chalk and clay, while the worshiped gods themselves are falling towards death.

    You are a pony made of black clay, dark and asphalt kisses, oh my dear, you are a poppy made of clay, a dove flying on the road at dusk, a pool full of tears from our poor childhood.

    "Little baby, you always have a poor heart and a pair of poor feet accustomed to stones. Your mouth often doesn't know what bread or candy is."

    You come from the poor south that nourished my soul: in her heaven, your mother and my mother still wash their clothes together.  That's why I choose you as my partner.

    The morning room: a jumble of truth, blankets and feathers, already disoriented at the beginning of the day, floating like a pitiful boat between the levels of order and sleep.

    Objects just want to drag the remains forward, aimless pursuit, cold inheritance, pieces hide their shrunken vowels, and the wine in the bottle prefers to continue yesterday.

    People who give all things order, you flash, like a bee to explore the tentacles towards the dark area, you use your white energy to conquer light.

    You create a new clarity like this: objects surrender happily to the winds of life, ordering bread and doves in their place.

    ???????????????????????????????????????????????? We are going home, to the home where the vines cover the trellises: the summer¡¯s footsteps of honeysuckle will reach your bedroom before you arrive.

    Our nomadic kisses wander to the ends of the earth: Armenia, the rich honey dug drop by drop, Ceylon, the green doves, and the Yangtze River¡¯s long patience that separates day from night.

    Now, my beloved, across the surging ocean, we are returning, like two blind birds flying back to the wall, flying back to the nest in the distant spring.

    Because love cannot fly without sleep: our lives return to the walls, to the rocks of the sea, and our kisses return to our territory.
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