The word, sweet ivy in a dark labyrinth
twirling inside and wiping away desire.
To every morsel of ice that now convenes
it shows its split open and warmed milk breast.
The word, voice of silence, love's conundrum,
bloodstain that looks after my dream.
A hand lashing full of pain
breaks a silvery sound with a gold and honey tint.
Never will the word be able to dance
if the stain doesn’t unlock the door,
and the fright, in abundance, razes its dawn.
Trans. by Jèssica Pujol