COM LA PELL DE LA BRESQUILLA

Com la pell de la bresquilla,
que arriba ara per st Joan
-quan s'acurten les nits-
dóna'm la boca;
em beus des de l'abisme
i a penes pots somriure.

Arran de la ferida
et parle de demà,
i t'explique amb els dits
que sempre em torna
un gran desig de viure't
que a penes puc descriure.

A voltes ets la dida
i a voltes la destral
que veu tots els envits
d'aquesta aposta,
sense que ningú et dicte
com és com has de viure.

As a peach skin, which ripes for St. John
-when nights get shorter-
give me your mouth;
you drink me from the abyss
and you can heardly smile.

On the verge of the wound
I'll talk about tomorrow,
and explain you with my fingers
that a great desire of living you
and which I can heardly describe, keeps coming back.

You're sometimes the nurse,
and sometimes the axe
that sees all the stakes
of this bet,
without letting anyone tell you
how you have to live.