Yet here, next to you,
when the whole world remains
at the mercy of unspoken things,
curled up into the threads
of your hands,
as blessed roots
before the threshold of a Spring,
here are quieted down the heartbeats
and the wounds are sealed
in the sweetness of this land
attached to your shadow,
to the color of your open eyes,
to the greenery of your name.
The dreams are unveil as open
blossoms at the first sprout
of dawn,
and are weaved sound strands
of the first chants
lulled in the tremor of your lips.
On them are settled the pillar of a silence
forged in the secret whisper
of a placid time
wider than the bosom of the sky.
Inside them I plunge
to return from a death knitted
with the shards of a Tweet
or a suicidal Like.
