No Title
Is there no alcove of the mind,
Nor chamber of the heart,
No apartment of the soul,
Which does not remain in province to your intoxicating presence after you leave?
Long hours and days,
After you grace the theater of my day,
Its stage remains set in your graceful anamnesis.
Mine eyes remain drunk in having looked into yours.
The warmth of your body still conquers the cold.
The taste of your lips still remain on my tongue.
The fragrance of your hair still fill my senses.
My memory replays the hymn of your voice.
Even my pillow, a once simple object now made to a jewel of beauty,
When ornamented with a single strand of golden hair you left behind.
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