We have nothing left, my love,
except love. Nothing, in our old age,
but to lick each other’s unhealed wounds.
Protect one another from the cold
with the warmth of our bodies
and the alternation of hot breaths on each other’s neck.
By laying hands on all, even the shameful places.
Shamelessly measuring our courage and freedom.
Seeing in our once beautiful bodies, now disfigured,
the balance of experience and ripening.
Adding our own trembling script to the palimpsest
of skin tanned by so many caresses. We are becoming all
of this, as much as we are different from who we were,
clay that wants kneading to be shaped into a new pitcher.
One that will be, when we have drunk all of its wine,
filled to the brim by death.
Translated by Mia Dintinjana