In the girl was a violence

In the girl was a violence,
a century of hungers
that she often lulled to sleep.
Then, one by one,
from her open chest,
came red balloons,
fears I burst with
the sharp edge of my
love.
She entrusted these things to me,
for a purpose I
would never discover.
In the soul of the woman,
the child’s despair was
never outgrown.
With her,
I would always be child too,
I would know the
indescribable lightness,
diving head first
from the flaming rocks
into an unrelenting
life.

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