That more than
A hundred twenty moons ago
I made a miss
Selection.
According to Darwin's laws
I am a loser.
So don't talk to me about
Music of the celestial spheres
Neither of ethereal afternoons of February.
Talk to me
About the diversity of eiderdowns
With which can be
Covered the impotence.
About the metamorphoses
With which usually hides
The melancholy.
The diverse disguises
With which it camouflages their aspect
The desperation.
My love was in that era
A green grassland
A blue sea
Starry sky
Tree full with fruits.
And even though
That I have being
Surrounding of mother-of-pearl,
Iridescent oyster,
The sadness
That you inserted me
The exact instant
Of your departure,
I am a cloud without water,
Carried without direction
For the wind,
An autumnal tree
Without flowers neither fruits,
Doubly withered
And with a root
Of bitterness.
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