Read me
It isn’t a surprise if the book of my memories
Takes you to the picking up of sparks
It isn’t a surprise
If my poems
Tear your tightly woven veil of turpitude
With allusion
I am happier with you
The spread of my memories
Is a big gathering of your memories
It is long since your voice’s undefined beauty
In the brightness of my songs
You cried openly
Read me
Because your destructive cup of thirst will be filled
With a single draught of my poetry
Read me because
You are depressed again
So that once again the clouds of your eyes will
Speak of spring
Rain down as much as you can
Rain down and with the long trill of words
On the cold soil of your chest
Give life to it
And at that time
With a whistle of my love
Grow, bloom and turn to spring
And I am sitting on the way of days
Because summer is returning little by little; help for us
And I am sitting
So you will invite me to the party of the honeyed boughs of your chest
To pick a basket of
The red apples of life
Summer is here
It isn’t a surprise
2003
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