The sky over Berlin

The foreign look flies over
    the rotating decay and the ripped fever.
    you ignore the clamor of the world
the playful cruelty of the unsuccessful search.
the ancient voices demand that you bite love,
like the fugitive and terrible apple that you must consume
before thirty,
eat it before it rots!

    We vibrate a fragile attempt to touch the infinite
    despite everything you abandon your neat position.
    you get dirty at pleasure in that liquid look
                              who begs and drags you
you surrender to the labyrinth. you prefer to burn.
not even an angel knows it. love is a trap and also a miracle