For the flower that I had
Dedicated to your devotion,
There were no rains
Neither the early
Nor the latter
That they sprinkled my passion.
Not even a crumb
From your milky way.
Not even a caress fell
From your constellation.
And without premeditating it,
And without premonition,
My heart was withered inside.
My feeling was not
Manna from the high heaven,
Not perennial leaf,
Nor mythical rod of Aaron.
Without thinking,
Without being planned
My passion was
Dried inside.
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