The true paradise is not in heaven...

April 29, 2022. No. 229

I am a lookout about to shout Earth... before the oceanic dawn; You outline yourself on the horizon of love, like a longed-for apparition in the mist —the one that one does not dare to believe without a ray of sunshine bringing certainty! Blessed is every page that breaks the waves of silence, like a bow keel in my anxiety. Only with you will I be safe from myself; Arriving at the port of your soul, it will be the moment to judge valid that journey that already lasts my existence. Storms and shipwrecks are left behind, knot by knot I move away from winter; your handshakes the handkerchief of welcome from the breakwater, I can feel the warm warmth of the mantle of your spirit, the protection of those who always arrive at home. As I sail towards you I stop being a pirate, the only thing left for me to do is dock in your embrace and achieve that kiss that reunites us in infinity.

A naked woman in the dark,

generates a radiance that gives confidence,

then Sunday the almanac,

cobwebs vibrate in its corner,

and the happy and feline eyes,

They look and they never get tired of looking.

Mario Benedetti draws a poem from the bodies, he sings about that nudity that goes beyond simply being without clothes. Feast of the senses, reasons, ideas, danzón of instincts, freedom of desire, of love:

A naked woman in the dark,

it is a vocation for the hands,

for the lips, it is almost a destiny,

and for the heart a waste,

a naked woman is an enigma,

and it's always a party to figure it out.

Sublime moment to be intimate with the being you love; magical flight that intoxicates us, detail by detail, growing in semi-consciousness until the climax of dazzling fever. How many centuries is worth each second of possessing, and being possessed, by that simple woman, who, in the eyes of love, is a goddess.

Making love is a very healthy thing: you burn calories and you even forget who you are, a woman once said and it seems healthy to me, but I must confess that the expression “making love” seems a bit simple to me. Of course, it's already generalized and we're not going to banish it, but I'm not pleased, because it's become like a synonym for coitus —it's not that this little word sounds resonant to me (musically it's horrible, I don't remember, among so many poems and songs that talk about sex, only one in which it has been used). What I mean is that to equate sex and love is to reduce the latter. Just as simplifying sexuality to carnal contact is ignorance (at best). On the other hand, that love is "made" gives me the idea of ​​a product that is manufactured.

The kiss of the tempting mouth

that you gave me intoxicated with illusion

I keep it as a cheering llama

deep in my poor heart.

The true paradise is not in heaven but in the mouth of the beloved woman.

I give you the most lyrical description of tenderness, which springs from Julio Cortazar:

I touch your mouth, with a finger I touch the edge of your mouth, I draw it as if it were coming out of my hand as if for the first time your mouth was opening, and I just have to close my eyes to undo everything and begin again, I give birth to each You see the mouth that I desire, the mouth that my hand chooses and draws on your face, a mouth chosen among all, with sovereign freedom chosen by me to draw it with my hand on your face, and that by chance that I do not seek to understand coincides exactly with your mouth that smiles below the one that my hand draws you.