They are the ones I keep in my notebook,
This now some say has passed.
In the ephemerality of everything, in the mismatch of souls.
I dedicate words from my garden,
Where I come to watch the shadow and the afternoon intertwine.
I speak to you of simple things, in a real way.
I know the place where I keep them, a refuge in my body.
I offer words even if they don’t make sense,
Why do I want to see you smile and release this storm from your eyes.
Clouds don’t kill, clouds don’t hurt,
It all makes sense when you want to let yourself be felt.
In the kaleidoscope of the last somnium,
The words look like confessions in disguise,
Through the labyrinths of our curiosities.
I will write a soft and subtle poem,
With unfinished words of nervous silence,
And the thousand whispers that end in me.
Feeling humbly touched by your being,
I read your signs.
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