Mad Silence
The crimson scent of your hands
at dawn
awakens its caress
within the strands of my hair,
like the clear touch of longing in the rain.
The sweet sound of your smile
glides across the skin of the wind,
breaks the heart of the breeze,
and makes the willow’s lips
tremble.
Among rivals,
my hands are empty of seduction…
When
the green taste of your words
perfumes the mouth of morning,
and the soft echo of dew
upon your fingers
plays
the strings of silence.
What shall I do
with all this coquetry?
From afar,
I watch you,
and my mad imagination
wanders
through the shadowless alleys of your gaze.
The forgetful eyes of memories
have abandoned
the weary eyelid of my window,
and my soundless prostration
has touched
the wounded heart of time.
What shall I do
with my solitude
and a lost dawn,
when
the stone-hard heart
within the chest of morning
begins to beat?