Where am I writing this poem:
What the orphan winds carry, some
In tired waters, memorizing your name by heart
In the winter cold that I avoid, I sit at my desk
In the rivers I have scribbled, the night is weak
In the light of which I describe flying with loneliness
In dark rooms, a mother whose milk has been weaned
In his gaze directed at the fog and clouds, there is a shiver
In your bosom where I take shelter, with your mutterings
On your wet tongue, on your neck where I breathe your scent