Sunday, November 15, 2009

Juan Pomponio

Old prophecies
they announce your skin.
I write without ink in the sky
and your name appears.
Small flowers that shine the night.
The tide arrives,
nocturnal music that unfolds.
Sounds without time.
In audacious waves
the rocks explode,
They pronounce your absence.
Dream without ink on the land;
petals of your smile fly,
they've gone to the sleep of the moon.
They leave your fragrance,
they draw your name in the sand.

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