blow up
I painted you in the pastel of my heart
when thousands of colors were not enough
to caress warmly so many vagueness forms
in the steps of time, and when all other painters
were breathing just black and white.
I reread you in noblest book, rigged on a shelf
without the dust of the soul. I've muttered
the warmest song out of unnumbered sounds
thrown tenaciously toward the many ears
who didn't want to take their time to listen to it.
I chose you be my director who turns drama
in a romantic story with a happy ending,
knowing that the end actually embraces
the new, formulated by lusts that blow up
to new origins, verbalized in our minds, once...
