Your poem rises from moist roses,
from bohemians wine.
You feel crazed bulls run
and dramas of fire igniting dogmas.
You see breathless virgins passing by
toward their first love,
unpredictable foreigners,
wharf thieves,
unnamable people freeing
endless flight of birds
from silence,
dusty steps of vigil,
a candlestick of pride in the glance of fugitives.
The poem, you say, is also a knife.