Where are all the horses
that can make a life sprout
and cease an emptiness to be?
For if when we forget the flesh
that pumps and turns in such a secret,
something I wish not to perceive
right in the corner of your eyes.
So far reality can be
when I get lost in your old fictions,
like once you told me in a dream
“I swear love is not ephemerous”
and a tear spinned down your face,
so I remained so uncomfortable
for the weight that you were carrying.
And your eyes, that strange harbors
attained to delve into my chest,
and I could only hold your hand
as if I’ve spent all of this life
waiting for that single moment.