I’d like to eat this woman:
eat all of her,
without sugar,
without cooking.
I’d like to eat her raw and alive.

I’d like to cut this woman’s neck:
cut off her arms and legs,
remove her breasts,
pull out her hair.
I’d like to keep her to myself.

I’d like to eat this woman’s song:
eat her wheat fields,
eat her trees,
eat her rape blossoms.
I’d like to eat her spring.

I’d like to kill this woman’s lover.
I’d like to expel
the fish swimming in this woman’s belly, the insects crawling there, slithering snakes, lazing rhinoceroses.
I’d like to let this woman keep on living.
I’d like to call the sun into this woman.

I’d like to sip this woman’s soul:
catch her clouds,
catch her sky,
catch her moon.
I’d like to catch her stars.

I’d like to be with this woman.
I’d like to protect her.
I’d like to eat her father, mother, brother, sister
and that god, too, that I would finally never be able to devour completely
no matter how hard I tried.

— Toshio Nakae