Death is waiting for me

As hundred years pass by,

for the soliloquy of this pained voice

by the enjambed deceptions,

the clamor of the leaves at dawn

of three autumns

is enough to get inside the depth of your dialogue,

inside your immaculate smile.

I don’t know if the nightingale sang,

starting a new day;

which is not just any day anymore,

due to the indelible ink of your name

makes the death alive,

and it never disappears of our winter.

Endless winter

since you don’t melt the snow

with heartbeats of honest blood.

I am aware: it is not your fault.

You didn’t abandon two perfect days,

days as examples to follow;

and a dark night,

a lost night.

The sun that turned off without you

flooded its own rays with your life.

Your incandescent light

lived in everything he touched.

In the unconsciousness of the subconscious,

I can still see your eyes shining

when they said ‘yes’

even though your lips said ‘no’.

Your smile still bursts

for other’s pranks.

In these days of water and salt,

this certainty appears clear

as your eyes, as the sea.

It is true: death is waiting for me,

but the idea doesn’t destroy me:

she follows our dawns

and the night is eternal

for you.