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Tonight I will be in your bedroom.

Tonight I will invade your dream,

your body, your blood and my

semen will be in your sweat and gaze.


Don’t fight, don't run away;

don't be with the other under penalty

to think of me in the very last ins-

tant and perspire the traitor syllable.


Tonight you will be small,

lost in the living room, lost in time,

tiny, a girl and fearful of every oblique

shadow that things project.


Tonight you will want the paternal

hand and warmest lap, but it’s me,

in the end, the father in the heart of

the father you yearn for; it is me, child,

what feels like hell and home,

damn and salvation.


Your palm will be slightly sweaty,

your thighs well crossed over the

hands tight together.


Fear and love, warmth

and cold are no longer distinguishable.


I am the disguised obsession

explained as habit and simple curiosity;

a lamp that trembles like a candle,

a lie that needs not be told, but just

quieted, swallowed dry, or else

watered with wine and laughter.

I am the mystery at the bottom of the rain,

the wind from afar that chills you.


And the cruelest fear to visit your soul

is the fear of not having anything to fear

except crave to be with me so close

like air and light that feed your lungs.



Igor Buys

In “Versos íncubos”, 2014

Versão do autor para a língua inglesa.


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