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The regular features,
The impassive face,
Of an out of reach beauty,
Indifferent.

Carved reflection in the matter
Of a celestial light,
Desirable sensuality,
Of such a nimble arm.

Even when the load is too heavy,
When shoulders are weighed down by emotions,
When decency is hidden in the arms,
The face remains impassive,
The perfect features unaltered,
Like a secret so badly kept.

No tear fills those empty sockets,
For no feeling is strong enough
To throw off matter
Or else in mime and pretense.

Yet we can guess under the surface
A skull alike ours,
And in those blind eyes disdaining us,
We project the crazed hope
Of an uncertain presence
Of which we could be jealous.

As if a sign would be enough
For those eyes at last to turn
And for ours to cross a look
Which would not be full of nothing.

And finally what is to say
Of those roses we are offered?
Let’s remain demure of that naivety:
We will never be true lovers.