Do not you care more for giving me days
months perhaps years, perhaps even he expected of me
and how many trips unfinished for human transits
the sad plots and the memories of today present
as ever become boring to remember
the commitments made without thinking
another simulation of the senses which drag
soul that so the decline does not transform
and if it turns does not lose the regret of the way
not singing the sublime life but only the love my divine
and if transmutes does not color the morning of enchantment.
Further fiction fixity of eternal
end, of death, of pain that dies
of all this silence without dreaming
too much hope in the night full of sorrow
which quickly breaks out and runs quietly
and pays no attention at all to the taste of joy dancing on heart
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