tinged every poem written in prose
memories of all my good times,
all open spaces, all dearest faces
and now you are here
and now I hold your hand,
no rimeless fear mars
now this timeless rebirth
of our beloved evening star
yes, when the morning arrives
No shadows will breathe
and neither Venus, nor the moon
nor I will run once again
in search of your precious,
scented breath, in a random
page filled with delicious words
And then you write in many tongues of
history, of war and of human desire, of
what needs to be said and said over again
to be known, to be loved is be reborn again
