Today you told me that you like it
how do you see yourself in me:
incomplete, as you are now,
and i wonder what it looks like
a root, before being a tree
a channel, before being a stream
a love, before fearing
to the night of time
I see you as a garden
who extends his arms
towards the pain
and covers it with flowers
for when there is fog

or my name becomes abstract
Today you told me that you like it
that does not have words for everything:
incomplete, as I will always be,
like the poem that is not what it says
and decrees each time the origin that sustains it.
I'm afraid to say the wrong word
but i also love to do it
if nothing is mine
in this world
nor in any other
Its shine will fade
just like the sky
that falls endlessly
and repeat our ignorance
I fear becoming indifferent
but i also love to do it
If I claim nothing as my own
when i cast a wish into the void
It is my poetry to disappear
and if someone asks for me
the rest respond "I don't know"
unless it comes up
a glow in response
If the desire gives me something back
will be spontaneous and fugitive
but it will also have
its repetition
of life and death
that so far is the only
that lasts forever
and it's not mine either