Like a thief or a woman
of the streets: you come at night.
You bring your harmonium,
the masculine
music stolen from fountainheads.
I was not expecting you: only once
did I await you, trembling with love:
I was so small
you did not see me.
You do not dare a single word;
only your eyes beg me to steal
you from death, to give back to the sun
the modest disorder of your days.
Or to listen, at least, to the poor,
hoarse, and lonesome
music of your small harmonium.