Sonnet 17 (Of the drunken poet)

I'm drunk today, my lover, as I will be tomorrow
And when it will be Sunday I'll drink for our love;
I'm bombed tonight, my sugar, as if I had to borrow
Some guns for my illusions with bullets from above.

I'm like no others, neither they will sustain my arrow
In their anemic shadow that lickers in sweet wine,
But if you saw the meaning of what they were - a narrow
Seclusion - you'll be hiding below my graceful line.

It's true... the bowl is crying because of its damnation,
While my ecstatic whistle blows fire in your ear;
Just when the rain stops bleeding, you'll find me in vibration
Towards the face of summer - one day in every year.

I hope you understand that my nothingness is what they
Call the subversive sorrow in manners of their own way.