You were born as Valentine's Day
with souls of winter adorned,
wondering alone among the people,
love loves me or loves me not,
You blink at love while I love you.
You were born as a cordial and grateful hymn,
the one of Valentin that hurts badly wounded
that assaults the lips of a mouth
with vigils overwhelmed at your dawn,
sentinels of a sleepy love.
You were born as a sign to the homeless
in fourteen prayers of a cold calendar,
making the rich poor and the poor rich
that never ever loved in your name
of unusual insanity and unexpected remedy.
You were born as an unusual fate of fortunes,
your irises of ice and fire are my cure
that in dry hardships turn green.
I am free in your miracle, when pretending to you,
of drooping adoration that undresses me.
You were born like the dark day of my death
and in the summer twilight of your womb
you gave birth to me as a weak child of your life
to hopefully erase envy
loving your marked date eternally.
Blessed are your white hills
And the moisture of your crotch