Feast

The dawn is breaking late,
the river flows unaware,
I warmed my hands
in the rain,
where the seas once flooded.
Grazing horses sculpt
the banks of the river.
Ancient swans wait
for another woman,
another man to groom.

My legs ache,
my eyes are wounded,

I won't quarrel
I will hold you
tight,
bear in mind I fear your
youth
I fear
the unequivocal sleep
cancelling the night to come.

I walk to measure my feet,
leaving behind your riddles,
My voice trembles
Inside your throat,
on the back of your neck.

I will eat the pheasant
when you arrive dressed
for the occasion, alone,
smeared with the scent
of wounded prey.
Only then, you can wear
the camel skin and the poplar
leaves in your hair.