ODE TO ITS AROMA

My sweet, what do you smell like,

of which fruit,

What star, what leaf?

Stick it to your little ear

or on your forehead

I lean,

sinking

your nose in your hair

and the smile

looking for, knowing

the nature of your aroma.

It’s sweet, but

it is not a flower, it is not stabbed

of penetrating carnation

or impetuous aroma

of violent

jasmine:

It’s something, it’s earth

is air

woods or apples,

the smell of light on the skin,

leaf aroma

of the tree of life

with street dust

and freshness

morning shade

in the roots:

smell of stone and river,

but closer

to a peach, to the lukewarm

secret throbbing

of blood, smell

pure-house

and cascading,

fragrance of dove

and of hair, aroma

of my hand

that crossed the moon

of your body, the stars

of your starry skin,

the gold, the wheat,

the bread of your contact,

and there in the extension

of your crazy light,

in your circumference of amphora,

in the cup,

in the eyes of your breasts,

between your wide eyelids

and your mouth of foam,

in all he left,

left my hand

the smell of ink and forest,

blood and lost fruit,

fragrance

of forgotten planets,

of pure vegetable maps:

there my submerged body

in the freshness of your love, beloved,

as in a spring

or in the sound

of a bell tower,

high among the smell of the sky

and the flight of the last bird,

love, smell, word

of your skin, of the idiom,

of the night in your night,

of the day in your eyes.

From your heart

salt your aroma

as from the light earth

to the top of the cherry tree:

in your skin I hold

your palpitation and smell

the rising wave of light,

the submerged fruit

in its fragrance,

the night you breathe,

the blood that runs through

your beauty

until you reach the kiss

that awaits me

on your mouth.