That’s how love really is: an afflicted, ill
Truth. A fragile act of poetizing, in which we
Hide, sighing, to scream
Everything that in the chest is felt and undone…
Felt anyways… The fading romances,
The strange needs falling apart.
Cunning, carnal desires… Armed desires
With bullets of the Moon, hurting everyone, from the child to the beast
Strong love; rotten love… From butterflies
To jackals. Wolves… Love of harps
Ah, angelic love. Love from the colorless heavens
Where god hides in his inexistence.
Love that pulsates and burns in the chest. Love.
Soneto, translated with lots of poetic freedom, yet still being incredibly accurate.