Estar enamorado es... (erótico-cultural)

To be in love, friends, is to find the right name of life.

It's finally giving in with the word that is needed to face death.

It's recovering the hidden key that opens the prison where the soul is captive.

It's rising up from the earth with a force that claims it from above.

It's breathing the wide wind that breathes above the flesh.

It's contemplating from the peak of the person the reason for the wounds.

It is to warn in some eyes a true gaze that looks at us.

It's listening in one mouth its own voice deeply repeated.

It's surprising in those hands that warmth of perfect company.

It is to suspect that, forever, the solitude of our shadow is defeated.

To be in love, friends, is to discover where body and soul meet.

It is to perceive in the desert the crystal voice of the river that calls us.

It's like seeing the sea from the tower where our childhood has been left imprisoned.

It's supporting sad eyes on a landscape of storks and bells.

It is to occupy a territory where perfumes and arms coexist.

It's giving the law to each rose and at the same time receiving it from its sword.

It's confusing the feeling with a fire that rises from the chest.

It is to govern the light of fire and at the same time be a slave to the flame.

It is to understand the thoughtful conversation of the heart and distance.

It's finding the compass that leads to the kingdom of music without bounds.

To be in love, friends, is to take possession of the nights and days. It's forgetting between excited fingers a distracted head. It's going on reading what the first swallows write in space. It's seeing the evening star through the window of a rural house. It's contemplating the train that passes through the mountain with its lights on. It's perfectly understanding that there are no borders between sleep and wakefulness. It's ignoring what the difference is between pain and joy. It's listening to midnight the vagabond confession of the drizzle. It's spotting in the darkness of the heart a small spark.

To be in love, friends, is to suffer space and time with sweetness.

Waking up in the morning with the secret of flowers and fruits.

It is to free oneself from oneself and be united with other creatures.

It's hard to know if distant bitter feelings are foreign or if they're my own.

It's like going back to the source the murky waters of the torrent of anxiety.

It is sharing the light of the world and at the same time it is sharing the dark night.

It's astonishing and joyful that the moon is still a moon.

It is to prove in body and soul that the task of being a man is less harsh.

It's starting to say always and from now on never saying again.

And besides, my friends, be sure to have pure hands.