by Lucian Avramescu
the woman is the only thing that matters
and i affirm this knowing that plenty
would raise their eyebrows...
her skin knows all the languages of the universal happiness,
glued to her, like to the earth,
i understand constellations, heaven and hell,
joy and sorrow;
the walking through myself
does me better and better
not to speak anymore
about the architecture of self or the one
that makes dim all the great cathedrals of the world
San Pedro, The Dome of Milan...
the woman is the only thing that matters
with her body in your arms
you can cross an ocean
even if you don't know how to swim
except in the waters of her eyes
without woman
our limo is only a broken carriage
and the bank account is smaller even if gets bigger
the friends are
full of the fever of treason
tapdoles are swimming in the most expensive wine
oh ay
the robin is singing in the top of your bosom
you happily dress in prison's clothes
like you were going to a wedding
count the coins on the sky
like a universal nabob
even if the wind is blowing through your social buttonholes:
the train runs over you
and a whisper, if left whole
follows the letters of her name
ready to weave plans for the future
when nearby a luxury morgue is lurking
the woman, gentlemen, is the only thing
that cannot be replaced except by its own self
her skin knows all the languages
of the universal happiness,
the circle of illusions
is her currency
through which we win the world crises
that's why i believe
her science
to make us happy and unhappy
gives you the title of
doctor honoris causa
of our complicated soul algebra.
the woman, gentlemen - not to bother you anymore -
the woman with her skin
which teaches us the alphabet of the blind,
with her always up side down cups of her breasts
in which we never read anything
the woman
with all the silverware of her smile
or her bareness that fills the universe
is the only thing that matters
gentlemen
