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When you will love

it will be like eating offals

at the dirtiest sandwich’s seller

just outside the club.

The beard soaked in oil,

the mouth full of scurrilous flavors,

the white t-shirt varnished with tabasco.

You will love

and it won’t be like that icecream that doesn’t melt in your hands,

there will be no bib.

There will be guts

and they will hurt you

and they will fatten you

and you will be so full,

just an inch away from an heart attack.

When you will fall in love,

you will not want to sit at the table.

You will lean on that wet bench

with the sun glaring after the storms

and your new trousers will get dirty.

You will laugh.

And laughing and stuffing yourself,

you will think of the most expensive wines,

the tallest steaks,

the caviar sitting on bread,

the chestnuts sold on the streets for ten euros like gold,

and laughing and choking,

you will send down some pesky lousy red wine

and you will feel the scent of the wet grass

and the fumes of the hot bread you hold.

Should you be dirty enough,

then will you have loved.