I am old and tired
the verses give me life
What do I write in my poems?
I can't feed myself
the meals do not fit me,
my lungs do not breathe,
I can not sleep.
Life weighs me down
it happened in a moment
without healing the wounds
of loves that were not,
who sneaked by
or who lived by my side.
I was very in love
but they never loved me
from the heart they did not love me
They didn't even tell me, I love you!
One because she died,
the other is a great treasure
that I have discovered;
consumed his youth
prey to discouragement
that produced my vices
that consumed her from the inside.
Now that I love her
your stories caress me
simply written,
without frills the verses,
of the little lives
protagonists of them
born of feelings
I say goodbye asking
from the bottom of my soul
in these infinite verses:
Where will my poems sleep
when my body leaves?
where will your house be?
who will read them at the table?
who will sing them at night?
who will carry them in his soul?
where will my love sleep
when will my poetry go?
who will speak to his eyes?
who will sing a lullaby
of caresses on the body?
who will tear to shreds
the sweet poetry of your dreams?
Where will my body sleep
when my poetry leaves?
where?,
where?.