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Poem

What can my lips say when thought falls silent?
Strings of disconnected thoughts run over my forehead,
Night gathers within me, it's later than I believe,
And each idea, a frailty, they are all strange and unexpected.
I confess, with the tremble of a leaf, my share of guilt,
Above me, the sky wears mourning, a saddened testimony,
When the path of life was opened to me, light from light,
From the cup of time I drank, the nectar, without tasting it all.
A voice shyly detaches itself from the fabric of the word,
To murmur poetry to me, an art both near and distant,
On the path of my fate, a procession of unfulfilled promises ensues,
Absent both the sharpness of pain and the soothing touch of joy, missed.
The night is a thread of magic until the premises of dawn make their way,
Time flows from dawn to dawn, it trickles subtly with a cruel smile,
All that we gather in time, in the order of life, slips away without care,
Departing without an owner, the treasures wander into the unknown.
In the ephemeral passage of existence, the voice of the echo dares not to rise,
It does not query why your heart throbs or why time mutters in vain.
Oh time, you hurry with the steps of the wind, counting the seconds of my life,
Leaving me with furrowed memories and years that carry autumn toward its setting.
In anticipation of an unfulfilled sleep, the altar of a new day opens,
A day that awakens with timid rays and kisses the pretending eyelids of night.
There still hang leaves of joy on branches, even on this mortal ground,
Let us raise from the walls born of pain, a monument to a love that never perishes.

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