The eyes collected the last lights
of the day, just as hands gather
wild flowers, or hold hands
souls with human bodies.
It was afternoon.
Between the mutilated fingers they escape
the words, like water slips away
between the hands, like the shadows
empty, immaterial, like tears
in the desert of the eyes, like laughter
transformed into suffering.
The veil of the night has already been broken,
the open window, like an immense mouth
dark that swallows the universe,
the trees and the shadows, the birds
that sleep, the songs that also
they sleep
The red moon is silhouetted behind the mountain range
gets inside the glass of the mirror,
looks at each other, scales walls and climbs the roofs.
It was afternoon.
When I started writing
the thought clinging to an idea,
How to balance time, the flow of blood,
life from its genesis?
Now a rose illuminates with petals
the shadows, flashing light,
like lightning strikes the night.
I'd be lying if I said I haven't thought of you
I would lie if I say that the aroma of your skin,
it is not the same aroma of the garden.
It was afternoon.
Now my insomnia is almost dawn
you wake up and look at me... still the moon
red, is the soul of your eyes.