The woman who lives within me
looks out of the window of a quiet house
and laps up the fado
the melancholy of the cello
the fire of the guitar
the unfolding vocal
at least one fruitless love
she knows, a fall that made her
stagger and perhaps
an enemy in her flesh
more beautiful she is than her life
softer her caresses than her hands
deeper her kisses than her mouth
The woman who lives within me
unavoidably became poetry
Translation: Willem Groenewegen, Ich bin / I am (2012)