To make love, Over and over, To consume ourselves doing nothing else, Like the echo of this almighty nature, Like the succession of all these impacts, All this water, all this wind, All this rock, everything bursts. Maybe a couple of strolls, For oxygen, For a little verticality and horizon, For a newfound reason to get undressed. To make love, like we draw an “8”, Endlessly, without lifting the pencil. The wind is banging against the windows It shall not be listened to, the traitor. We must keep on, Make love all over again, Our temples bouncing about, Our hands full, A storm of skin, Which subsides… slowly. Two breaths are moving back and forth, Resounding mirror of the nightly sea That is breathing still. Thereupon starting again, starting again, Over and over, Like the relentless sea That won’t ever know land, but through avid gulps.