We are that lonely orange tree
On the edge of the grove,
The stars in our hair,
The moon on our branches,
The sea dancing
In our bones.
My hands are made of wood,
And your sweat, your skin, your breath,
Of the taste of tangerine,
Mixing sweetly with the air,
Like something unseen, there … there …
There is a tune playing so softly,
That it makes no sound,
But its waves of delirium, dancing in our hair,
Never knowing what is to be,
And what should ever be,
In the place of such sweet music,
But for these! – my hands, my hands!
Running through your hair,
For I taste the zeal of zest, of sound
Being sculpted by your touch, the air,
Living in the notes,
That echo in your breath,
For what does it mean to feel?
In this chaos, with this scent for wood
and wood for skin?
But to touch the taste of music,
To sweat these sacred notes,
In our voices, the melodies resounding clear,
That play for as long as we care,
To listen, to taste, to feel,
Never being here, but there …
Made of wood, and the nothingness
Of air between our souls.