can not find ink that is dark enough
nor words so deeply sad to express it...
a poem of life, a dream of perfection,
a secret hidden in a safe inside me
that will have to die with me...
I wished tulips, I inherited thorns,
long ambitioned the blue of the sea,
still only have the dark gray of caves...
sharp obsidian blades keep open wounds,
face wrinkled with pain to the sound of the lute,
which echoes melodies of frozen silence...
the rising wind blows the news
between the Andes and Himalayas, Atlantic and Pacific,
without ever finding the key to your love...
nuggets of salt water papyrus
where ink can not describe
the lack that your smile makes me...
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