About gestures and longings II

«The purpose of art is not the release of a momentary ejection of adrenaline but rather the gradual, lifelong construction of a state of wonder and serenity.»
— Glenn Gould

«I wasn’t kissing her, I was whispering in her mouth.»
-Chico Marx

Spanish version

Ten past eight pm.
Darkness, sailed by white and red lights.
The night falling over the city.
The winter, waiting hungry around the corner.
The clock running,
always running.

The wolf, alone,
hungry as the cold,
scared as the seven year old lost boy that once was,
wondering what would be of him
if he was to remain alone forever.

And the hope,
coming back in the form of a gesture,
(or a woman, if it’s still not the same -let’s call her B-).
only to vanish away for the night two beers later.

Terribly simple:
The gracious movement of a hand
climbing to the Olympus of a short hair
that crowns her sweet blue face.

Hours of interesting talk,
from personal history
to random stories.
With all the passion the Demiurge could possibly provide
to two human beings speaking.

Visits from Morpheus and Glenn Gould,
words for the future and the past,
the elders and the kids,
the fears and the facts.
The great pleasure of vivid conversation.

Once and again,
the same gesture,
the hands, reviving the hair,
lifting it,
making me think that she can even give life.
The life my hurt wolf needs.

The laughs,
the intense energy running through my everything
every time i felt her smily look
on the full depth of my fear and my illusion.

Such a connection,
yet here I am,
about to start another night
wondering why isn’t she by my side,
or what I did wrong to be unable to steal from her
a simple kiss.

For good or bad,
the old wolf will remember that magical gesture
that once and forever made her different from all the rest
and will howl to every full moon,
and will ask to every chord of the Aria di Capo
for a price, no matter how high,
for her kiss,
for his happiness,
for a chance to the future: their future.

Spanish version