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Poem

Beneath the blanket of dreams, impenetrable nights, you have reason to cry,
Our bastions of hope are now but ruins and deserted streets,
The walls of the heart that seemed fortresses stand ready to fall, one by one.
I erred, a whisper in the ether, a phantom in the sweet realm of memory.
Weep, my love, in the echoes of the evening, weep as the day crumbles,
Stretch your tears along the thread of time, beads of invaluable sorrow,
We tread in the wake of the stars we promised to keep alight,
And let the fog of forgetfulness swallow them, one by one, into the abyss of indifference.
I now wander, prisoner in the labyrinth of my own mistakes,
I confess, with faltering words, that our balance's sentinel has wearied,
When promises broke, as rose petals detach
From the stem of pride, leaving only the thorns, sharp and cold.
You have every reason, oh, you have all reasons, in the cool of the descending evening,
To strew the ashes of my errors in the path of barefoot steps,
In the twilight that unfolds its salvific melancholy toward us,
You have cause to embrace your soul overrun by fleeting disillusionments.
The echo of your steps in the silver forest of memories resounds,
The lament of silence, blossoming in a dance of our absence,
The rustling of leaves of longing is to me both symphony and reproach,
For I have committed the sin of negligence under the high vault of the bitter sky.
Cry, for whom to cast the syllables of your sigh into scattered seasons,
And let nature lay its pain upon the seraphic wings of mornings,
Building with each tear a sanctuary of our memories,
Where I shall remain, forever a tolling bell between what we were and what we lost.

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