inside the poem
I unveil your core
crossing its mystery
here but there
I draw you:
shadow
center of no one
whether I don't know yet
if it will exist.
When everything that is,
iff we’ll not know,
iff it’ll be disintegrated,
iff there will be no love in its timelessness,
and we will be left
inside steles that will be gone;
wow, what poems, you,
when you write inside them:
“Hablará por espejos,
Hablará por oscuridad
Por sombras
Por nadie.”
And still knowing it, you sentence:
“nadie es del color más profundo”