January

I explore skirts of mountains,
search for golden warriors and
the everlasting exaltation of the heroes.

In caves of ice I discover
springs of lukewarm waters,
and not more caused cracks
of nostalgia to the contact of a man.

I sank in your waters
and the heat you unraveled in my belly
proclaimed you as absolute proprietor of my sex.

(I crowned you king of my sensuality.)

Huntress of my shortcomings,
I watch them, and when I surround one,
I feel the lioness satisfied before my soul.

(I learned to fail.)

January is my girl, my new life,
my delightfully fulfilled soul,
he informs, and already without prejudices
my desire to be reborn forty times.

Restraining the greed of life
I cover spaces of our grindstone,
and will not push bitter waters back;
my branches return sweet sweets.

I leave behind the shame of youth,
without temptations plunged on the outside
only with the useful thing, a pink made truth.

My roots have served only
to absorb the sustenance.
But for your blood, I navigate the certainty.

(Never again I will doubt.)

ROSAMARIA JOOS, ©2006
Translated by Mark L. Melcher, 2006