Your fingers struggle to follow the path, to fiercely pluck the pretext

Your fingers struggle to follow the path, to fiercely pluck the pretext, As though my being were trying to catch the last drops of your receding waters. You leave our novels under the clear summer sky, waiting for all that was To evaporate, to be lost in the sun, to detach from us as easily as morning dew. An eternity I wandered through fogs, to wake from beneath your repeated enchantment, Which, like a sorcerer who forever charms his little sphere, you've muddled my moments, Turning days into palimpsests upon which you wrote and erased, as often as the spell lost its speech. Now it is you who wants to sever the meaning of magic, the honeyed sweetness dried on your lips, In the moment when your scent surrendered to the forgetting between the pages of our favorite stories, And then, the sadness reflects in us, that our paths were not meant to intertwine. What was between us remains a dimmed syzygy, without a temple, a star without shine for me. Yet, memory plays unfettered in my secret garden, keeping only shards of joy, But that muller which crushes between memories distinguishes them and smoothes the path to what will be. Those foreign memories, stirring the still waters of the moment, were not worth pouring into the cup of tomorrow. Thus, I let them burn in the flame of an everlasting twilight, just as you did with our last silent farewell.