Russians torture me

It has no sense.

As a glass of hot milk in the middle of the hell,

to calm the devils that torture me.

I’ve been talking with them

and each name you used

for coming to hurt me

appeared.

We counted every time I sold my soul

to that buyer of unresolved dreams,

to all the spaces where I left my own skin,

again and again.

To you.

When we met in this bookshop in Paris

and you wore a look that no book would dare to describe

(we didn’t let them do it);

when we jumped to Berlin

because it was the intermediate point,

the vertex where we decided to join our segments;

if you were sad,

we attacked Amsterdam and all its museums

surrendered in front of the sculpture of my wishes

and Vienna called you for walking in its New Year’s Eve,

they knew about your voice…

when I lost you in Moscow to see who were coming later

and the fucking Russians didn’t leave us alone,

they tortured us.

Do you remember how we pointed them the sky with the heart

while we showed the carnal sins

that our mouths hid?

I signed my own death sentence

when, in the middle of the Cold War,

I painted a graffiti from the Statue of Liberty

to those skyscrapers:

“Maia ducha, ya liubliu tibia” (my soul, I love you)

those fucking Russians have nice words… sometimes.

And the whole city asked for a restraining order

from your feet to its sky.

You have no sense.

But how wonderful is to lose the world

with you

with me.