My little love, you don´t know it,
you can´t possibly know it yet:
it´s not your voice, the cold angel
of your mouth, nor your responses
to the sandalwood you breathe
and exude, that move me;
neither your ardent,
crucified virgin´s stare.
Your eloquently expressed
anguish doesn´t move me,
nor does your silent,
hopeless weeping.
Your melancholy gestures
don´t move me;
nor your longing, your hope,
nor the wound
of which you talk, tormented.
It´s your entire being—
your depicting your life
with such ungainly, cleansing
passion, that moves me,
like he who wants to kill himself
to be able to stay: I´m a suicide.
Leaf that hardly stirs
and already feels stricken:
I´m going to keep loving you
all day long.
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