the refusal of the evident images  IV

Some nights are made of my arms

And a silence familiar to violets.

And there are seven moons that have seven traces

Of seven nights that were never made.

Some nights we carry around our waist

Like a belt of great butterflies.

And a blood streak in our dark flesh

Like a sword in a comet’s hem.

Some nights leave us behind

Curled up in our disenchantment

And white swans that are only equal

To the farthest wave of their song.

Some nights take us where

The ghost within us is closest;

And it is always our voice that answers

And only our name was fitting.

Some nights are lilies and beasts

And the accuracy of our vile rose

Reconciles in the cold of the spheres

The stars look at each other in silhouette.

Translated to English by Diniz Borges

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