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Poem

The widow's eyelids of the house gradually close,
Over the empty rooms, where love once wove the velvet of longing.
My wife has dissolved into the echo of days, my daughter - a fleeting thought,
Books, paper birds loaned to the winds, my clothes,
Silken bones wringing out the last drops of time.
A caricature of a chariot, with wheels freed from roads, I offered it to the void,
In a past already too dim, too detached from the living present.
And the real and the dream, love and the void, they dance away, fragile
As the bitter waving of foam - soon gone, nameless on the lip of the glass.
And my mind is now more a prayer without an altar,
A sanctuary with icons that fade, discolor, lost in time.
Senses catch only the shadows of saints set to leave,
And my soul is an unwritten liturgy, where faith is all that remains when life recedes.
Everything I loved, the wanderings of my soul whitened everywhere,
They have taken flight towards the ashes of tomorrow, I do not retain them, do not stop them.
Like a hermit of oblivion, I end in a chapel of silent gratitude,
In the chamber of the heart, only the empty echo of my wandering steps, proof that I was and that I am, in a world that no longer recognizes, but passes.

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