When I consider the night’s mystery, I imagine the mystery
of your body,
which is only one of the forms of night’s being;
I know beyond doubt the body that inhabits you is nothing
more than the darkness of your body;
and this darkness is diffused under the night’s sign.
In the countless concavities of your body there are multiple
kingdoms of darkness;
and this is something worth reflection.
This body, closed, secret, and forbidden; this body, other
neither foretold nor foreseen.
And it is like resplendence or like shadow:
it only allows itself to be sensed from afar, from the
indeterminate, charged with excessive loneliness which has
nothing to do with you.
And it only allows itself to be sensed feelingly, through
temperature, and through a sorrow that has nothing to do