The Sicilian Garden

To spend the night in Syracuse
plucking the petals from intoxicating roses
and tasting the stars
on my breast thirsty for perfume,
that's my favourite fantasy,
that's the dream
whose roots can be found
in the joy that your opal lips
and your eyes the colour of Asturian coal
communicate to me with the ardour
of the dawn breeze
in a temple
where the wind blows
from the statue all have kissed,
the Black Virgin!

To kiss your neck in a Sicilian garden
where the moon flows with
a river of incense
and balmy essences,
that's the meat of my ambition
in this world,
the same overweening ambition
of all who, being human,
transcend themselves
on a trip to paradise
through the bitter sea,
down the avenue of sun-bright torches
that makes the mystery
of the alchemical wedding
of copper from Cyprus
and tin from Spain
and leads to the birth
of the child of yellow gold!

Frantically awaiting
the hour of gladness
which will surely come,
with my head on your knee
I raise this ode
to your alabaster face,
balanced on your neck like a lily of Judea,
and I make the swan's wish
for the meeting of our bodies
in one single soul!