Like a monk, chanting, my voice filling the library chambers, humming your incantations. My soul, rocked by the fireplace embers… Your eyes, my illuminations.
Tirelessly measuring the science of your beauties.
(Passionate observation, note-taking, calculations… sweetly obsessed devotion… unfatigable dreaming…)
The long-concealed secrets, at last revealed:
The final equations of your walking, the variables of your balance, your ankles' diminute rotation angles, your head’s exact tilt.
This monk is proud. In the library towers, over his workspace, he drifts into slumber.
Then, the twilight brings the day, allowing the lovers' souls to criss-cross again, by the first shades of the morning.
Sándalo Naranja
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