Loneliness is my beautiful coveted lover,
Wearing long dress at my side in galleries.
With her face made up and her lips so discreet,
Whispering as always that she is here.
In the daytime, her dusky portrait weighs in my pocket.
She is the model that sits in front of the canvas,
Disguised as wind, of nothing, of incense...
She is Mona Lisa's imprecise and biting smile,
She is the shameful joy in the naked body of my own Bacchus.
But the hours turn her into an executioner,
Who with displeased joy sheds the blood of the sun,
Her ardent pupil looks at me with stolen fire,
And instead of mourning the body... perverse she gets excited.
She encloses me in the shadow of the upholstered walls,
She takes me to the center of her dark labyrinth.
After the meridian without the star I got scared…
Reclining in the immensity of this bed,
I hear the hasty hiss of her walk,
Until the feeble light of the night lamp
Draws in grays, and with red, the reliefs of her new form:
Immense, brutal, shaken; gasping with desire.
The loneliness becomes the incubo of my nights,
The enormous and terrifying beast whom I copulate.
Without truce he rips irascible, sinister, impulsive,
The red lace nightgown no one had seen.
He laughs at my crying, at my plea without destiny.
He mocks of my ridiculous strength without motives.
He takes me and fills me inside with his flesh,
Penetrates impassive, painful and ruthless,
Stirring to the rhythm of his degraded lust.
The whole night coars with my gasping cries,
Those who turned into the singing of crickets in heat.
My tears become the dew that drips from the leaves of the jasmine.
And when the God Helios revives and reproaches him again,
He goes reluctantly from my body soaked with his flow.
Gentle, I’m floating for a moment in the humidity
That left my brutal lover in the sheet without blemish.
With the morning light I look again at her white back,
And I am enchanted, unintentionally, by the beauty of her muse body.
Without warning, she hurries, descend barefoot down the stairs.
She draws me to her table with the clinking of porcelain,
She sweetens the black coffee that has made me in front of me.
She watch the slow count clock melted into the wall
And put in my hands brushes and oil.
Sensually sliding her firm hands on my chest,
And she keeps the picture that whispers in my pocket malicious;
It is her image next to my heart that tells me that here she stills.
―Mendhi Samadhi
