I have opened so many nights;
when I look at the shadows,
when I enter his soul.
Sometimes your silence sticks
to my immobile hand, waiting
of an idea, of a code
to open the memory of
nostalgia that appears between
their shadows or your nakedness
peeking into my eyes.
The night looks like your skin
shines without light in my retinas,
I grope it and it vibrates
in my fingerprints.
It is consumed in my hands
gets wet from night rain
shudders on vibrato
of my voice
I've been open so many nights
with my trembling hands
under the canopy of trees
that surround the house
under the rain of petals
detached from the orange trees
flowered .
I've been open so many nights
of strange sounds,
of the violin that plays until it bursts
the strings like lightning
in the vastness of the cosmos.
In the hollow of a tree
a parliament of owls,
make decisions, and in unison
They take flight to break the silence.
I've been open so many nights
I don't remember since when
I write with the beauty of black ink
my poetry.