translation (or isomorphism between two language spaces)
Lo Ajeno (~that which does not belong to me)
Caresses with tender hands, never soiled,
not timid nor assertive;
with a touch known but not familiar;
not of relatives, perhaps not even of lovers.
She leaves an affection with a soft warmth,
it doesn't boil, but isn't tepid.
Tentative glances, yet with a purpose.
She approaches with caution, wanting to know.
She retreats without the desire to leave,
wanting me to draw her back.
She speaks to me with an patient urgency; a tranquil passion
that betrays instincts.
Her words leave me with an appetite;
not for what she speaks, but for what is hushed.
Her looks taste of hunger, but lack
the fragrance of necessity.
She leaves me with a thirst even though I sip at her beauty
and I resort to smoking the moments like so many cigarettes.
Her skin lays on mine like kisses from the petals of a silk flower,
she divulges to me what I've been missing.
Somewhat shaken by her breathing that whispers in the ears of my fragility,
I stay there and pine not for what's been lost, but for what's absent;
one more void recognized with each of her gestures indelible to my senses.
She gives me - need.
She gives feeling to what's been numb;
she awakens what's been asleep, and with that,
memories of what no longer pertains to me -
ashes of a sterile affection.
Her eyes, not with the subdued light of a candle,
but the their piercing brilliance sheds light on
great chasms brimming with nothingness.
With her hand in mine she disperses the darkness.
But in the very eve of knowing she leaves.
There in the coldest of cognizance she left me;
looking at the vacancy and desolation, that were given birth
by past storms;
listening to the vestiges of past encounters
that reverberate in my thoughts and
shatter what was cherished in forgotten incarnations.
Alone, albeit more wise there in the nothing -
with, at least to start,
an enigmatic smile, perhaps borrowed.
But at least, finally, with something.
Caresses with tender hands, never soiled,
not timid nor assertive;
with a touch known but not familiar;
not of relatives, perhaps not even of lovers.
She leaves an affection with a soft warmth,
it doesn't boil, but isn't tepid.
Tentative glances, yet with a purpose.
She approaches with caution, wanting to know.
She retreats without the desire to leave,
wanting me to draw her back.
She speaks to me with an patient urgency; a tranquil passion
that betrays instincts.
Her words leave me with an appetite;
not for what she speaks, but for what is hushed.
Her looks taste of hunger, but lack
the fragrance of necessity.
She leaves me with a thirst even though I sip at her beauty
and I resort to smoking the moments like so many cigarettes.
Her skin lays on mine like kisses from the petals of a silk flower,
she divulges to me what I've been missing.
Somewhat shaken by her breathing that whispers in the ears of my fragility,
I stay there and pine not for what's been lost, but for what's absent;
one more void recognized with each of her gestures indelible to my senses.
She gives me - need.
She gives feeling to what's been numb;
she awakens what's been asleep, and with that,
memories of what no longer pertains to me -
ashes of a sterile affection.
Her eyes, not with the subdued light of a candle,
but the their piercing brilliance sheds light on
great chasms brimming with nothingness.
With her hand in mine she disperses the darkness.
But in the very eve of knowing she leaves.
There in the coldest of cognizance she left me;
looking at the vacancy and desolation, that were given birth
by past storms;
listening to the vestiges of past encounters
that reverberate in my thoughts and
shatter what was cherished in forgotten incarnations.
Alone, albeit more wise there in the nothing -
with, at least to start,
an enigmatic smile, perhaps borrowed.
But at least, finally, with something.