Personal Gifts

Their white shoulders
that move like tamed beasts
like bright and lonely islands
stuck in the primeval mud of indifference
their voice foreseeing the Flood
their voice is the first sound
that preceded all music
their prayers are ready for eternal voyages
their prayers are not for human ears
their open windows
promise nothing
their hips bloat
in their selfishness
their landscapes of voluntary oneness
their landscapes of mild irritation
their landscapes of haughty devotion
their landscapes
are not for man’s conquests