Maybe it's my words
boring, monotonous, threadbare
scratched at the sight of a reader.
maybe it's the same bird
song repeater with the difference
that changed colors its plumage.
Maybe it's the same fist of the hand
that spells a verse
the same fingers that play
with the metaphors
the same memory that travels
through time.
Perhaps the cycles repeat,
but every sunrise is different
life, in every sunset
death is different.
Maybe they are the same plants
in the garden, but every day it blooms
a rose.
Maybe they are the same words
but the caresses are different,
otherwise, love was monotonous,
like a lifeless soul.
Maybe they are the same words
but the city is different every day;
When it rains, it looks like a canvas
still in sketch, pale and melancholy,
under the sun, the domes touch the sky
and the bronze shines sonorous in the wind.
Maybe they are the same words
The clock watches us since ancient times
of a mirror, your body and mine
trapped in the glass city
Maybe the butterfly garden in your belly
be the same, but you have to harvest
flowers so they never stop flying
your butterflies.
Maybe your skin and mine is no longer the same
than a few years ago.
But I won't stop caressing her and rejuvenating her
between my fingers
I will rush into the abyss of your veins
And I'll let them wash me away like a river
until the end of our time.