Analysis of Fragments.

Drizzle in the memory
of a cold December,
the hair of the sun
ruffles in the distance,
in the barren landscape
of this desert of melancholy,
where the eastern mountains
are sculptures of women
who sleep naked in the eternity
of the horizon.

Narrow,
I wish you would like this
when you go down and go up the stairs
of my legs and I look at you
in the mirror of your eyes
with the mast of my manhood,
and on your lips I imagine
those things that passion
surrenders to the kiss
when love fits in the soul
with the desire to fly to anywhere
where the dawn rests
 in your heart and mine.