The men in my poems

have no names;

they are always you,

in an endless dialogue about love.

You, who come

and you, who go away.

You with many faces

but only one heart,

heart that beats red

and sighs blue.

You have many hands,

but always the same steps,

steps that announce your arrival,

regardless whether you come

from the West of from the East.

The men in my poems

have no names;

they are always you.

You, who make me dream

in colour,

and you, who store passion

under your eyebrow.

You with palms of cotton and arms of steel;

with eyes that melt mountain snows

letting them sink into a meadow

to fondle my bare feet.

The men in my poems

have no names;

they are always you.

You, who keep returning to the same abuttal

between the sunflower fields,

who sit on a mound

and whistle the same old tune.