As a painting we will go erasing
I contemplate impotent
this Olympus of dead God,
of nonexistent artificial paradises,
and this deep cough that
al bothers me to look at the sky whitewashed of my yellow room of nicotine,
and this dirty white shirt of my deep depression,
and this insistent sweat
and your misty memory,
and the sadness of my eyes
looking at in your eyes,
and your absent look.
Cultivation in my garden
sore red roses
that adorn your memory,
and still I feel you to float in it in the
long nights under the sky,
and I hear your voice
traveling through the labyrinth of the hedges,
and I believe that inevitably,
still I loving you.
¿La realidad existe?
this Olympus of dead God,
of nonexistent artificial paradises,
and this deep cough that
al bothers me to look at the sky whitewashed of my yellow room of nicotine,
and this dirty white shirt of my deep depression,
and this insistent sweat
and your misty memory,
and the sadness of my eyes
looking at in your eyes,
and your absent look.
Cultivation in my garden
sore red roses
that adorn your memory,
and still I feel you to float in it in the
long nights under the sky,
and I hear your voice
traveling through the labyrinth of the hedges,
and I believe that inevitably,
still I loving you.
¿La realidad existe?
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