Like pendulum, the stanzas vibrate in my head
I want them likewise, swinging and stressing
Not to be polished by the vapor of frying and the smell of cleaning powders
May I wrap them in a towel, not to be wet by moisture while cooling in the fridge
Scarcely, I hurried to write down my stanzas
That spouts from the kitchen, on the mobile notes

When my home day ends, I look at the mirror
Touching my eyelashes, eyes, lips and my roses
So, I have rapture from my lissome completion

The idols of poetry that tempted me at the kitchen,
Lurks in my braid and refuses to get out
I try to remember but in vain, as if fell in the soup plate
Of my husband who swigged it saying:
Explain to me why some of your food is more delicious than others

In other times,
He winks me flirting at the mirror
Pulling out the poetry stanzas from my gypsy hair
Printing them with his music on my lips
Then, I want to step to complete the poem

Its the same but i forget (a) in the title in the first one.

Fetus’s Becoming

I become a fetus
roll on myself like a ball
This remembering feeds me
I get high on the musk
Of the umbilical chord
The melded odours of my parents

I bask in my beginnings
My mother and I and I as one
As we orbit our universe

Now the clear water sits
On the sediment
My true self without mask or gayle
Free from algay and colours
I arise without myths and predictions
Free to become.