Every day, my poems grow shorter

Every day, my poems grow shorter: Little fires for the one who was lost in a strange land. And I awaken from dreams drowned in twilight's light, Seeking hidden roots in the fractured soil of memory, Continuously dissolving in silence, in caress and burning agony, Waiting for the light through the window to blend me. On the edge of infinity, where stars murmur with shadows, A river flows towards a valley without name, without end, Each drop glittering with lost and recovered memories, In it, I saw my childhood, my adolescence, the heartbeats. Like a world raised from the mists of loss, The rills of time steeped in the gold of the sunset, I disintegrate into autumn leaves, always longing For the embrace of the dusty north that held my dreams. And in those moments of latent slumber, Between night and healthy dawn, An old longing grasps me, calls me Like the silent herbarium, filled with vestigial loves. The spaces within deepen full of moans, When my eyes run over the bed stripped of soul, Pieces of words and voices tumble through me, Fragmented like the past autumn, like showers of sand. Where are you, ancient honey, with wings of light? Where are you, unsettled traveler of my soul? In the sharp nails of night's thresholds, I seek my ghost in a land of oblivion. I consume myself in thoughts, in tireless waves, The counsel of ancestors is mute, feverish, And in every flame kindled by verses, I seek that gaze, full of hunger, of shivers. Oh, dried-up memory, deep well, Sharks of illusions whirl through the cold veins, And my perpetual thirst, unrelenting hunger, Continue to stir the silence of unending time. In the sounds of the old clock, in cracked mirrors, I remain the poor poet, returned to the beginning, The reason for my entry, my words shortened, And the blinding puzzle on simple earth.