I Haven't Forgotten You
I Haven't Forgotten You
Let us dress the trees in velvet that bleeds leaves of ancient gold,
from the panpipe let the wind sing a longing too big for any song,
let us gather in bouquets only flowers that grow in dead constellations,
beneath the breath of night that flows from a cloud like from an open wound.
Come barefoot, light from the darkness, come with your soles made of wax,
when the furrow breaks open under dew that falls like tears of tired angels,
breathe again the humble seed from a flower that forgets its own blooming,
and don't lose hope, which is a fragile thread woven from sacred forgettings.
From bark let's make a flock of migrant birds that carry memories in their wings,
that in the deep of the sea search for treasure that exists only in the searching,
through time's feathers they arrange themselves in flight like an alphabet writing itself,
leaving through wet leaves and returning in spring like green ghosts.
A cry of echo is heard up in the mountains where silence is too heavy,
where the path groans with loneliness like with an illness beyond cure,
a shadow breaks away from footsteps too deep and floats toward the light,
it rises gently toward pure eternity which is just another name for forgetting.
A tear detached from the eye of the spring, colder than living ice,
buries itself in the earth like a crystal dagger cutting the roots of time,
it melts the root that stays silent unshaken beneath the mound of gathered leaves,
and the wind gathers them gently like unfinished letters written to you.
Let us dress nature with cracked branches from which life flees and returns,
from which buds fly toward the pure sun like reincarnated souls,
let us put the perfume to sleep beneath the eyelid of a dream where you still exist,
from eyes let dew flow for I haven't forgotten you, I can't, I won't, I don't know how.
The velvet of leaves is the mantle in which I dress your absence, heavy and warm,
the panpipe of the wind sings in emptiness and that emptiness has your precise shape,
the flowers from the stars are only shadows of flowers you once loved,
and the night flows from a cloud that carries your name written in rain.
Barefoot comes your light from my darkness and leaves traces of cold fire,
the furrow breaks open like a heart searching for its lost half in the earth,
the seed breathes humbly because it knows that death is just another form of life,
and the hope I don't lose is the sweet poison that keeps me still bound to you.
The birds from bark fly with your treasure in their beaks toward the deep of the sea,
and time's wings carry them in flight like unspoken prayers,
they leave through wet leaves and return in spring with your old news,
but you never return, only your echo is heard up in the mountains.
Your shadow separates from my deep footsteps and climbs toward eternity,
and the tear from the eye of the spring is the one from my eye that doesn't dry,
it melts the root that stays silent beneath the mound of memories gathered by wind,
and the cracked branches bloom because I haven't forgotten you, I can't, never.
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