La luna,
La luna llena y redonda,
Esta hueca y vacía.
El viento,
El viento rápido y feroz,
Esta lento y frío.
Las aguas,
El agua deslizante y fresca,
Esta estancada por los metales humanos y el estiércol y la basura la detienen.
La tierra,
La nutrida tierra,
Esta seca y quebrantada.
Los árboles,
Los fuertes y robustos árboles,
Estándares de la vida,
Se inclinan hacia la tierra seca.
La luna hueca se refleja en la tierra vacía y seca;
Y la tierra esta seca porque el agua no corre
Y esta estancada
Y el estiércol
Y la basura
Convierten el agua en lodo,
Y el agua se seca y desvanece
Y la tierra endurece,
Y los árboles, los grandes árboles sé mueren,
Y ya no existe el viento,
Y todo muere.
Muere la tierra,
Porque el agua se a secado,
Por culpa de los metales humanos.
Por culpa de los metales humanos muere el agua que seca la tierra que da muerte a los árboles que callan al viento.
Y la luna,
La luna hueca y desolada desciende,
Y nace el sol caluroso,
Y quema todo,
Y todo muere.

I see poetry in waking up every day feeling your breath in the back of my neck.

I see poetry in the smell of eggs, bacon and lemonade in the kitchen while I shower.

I see poetry in my wallet where your picture always is.

I see poetry in the morning when I step outside and you wave good bye.

I see poetry in our messages and every little reminder that you love me still.

I see poetry in your body as you slowly undress for me.

I see poetry in you, and me, like pen and paper, we both play our part.

So we make poetry in the sheets,
And we write it in our hearts.

May be I've written all I had to write,
may be I've said all I had to say...

The gate was closed,
the river dried,
the portal sealed,
the poet died.

I've packed my things while there's still time,
soon they'll march in here and take this too,
I don't feel nothing I've lost the key,
but then again what's it to you?

God if the crime I commited was charged with sin,
by heaven's gates take anything,
anything but my palpitating fingers,
return to me the empty words,
the shattered puzzle I cannot complete,
to form the feeling that still yet lingers.

For what's a singer without a song?
What's a knight without his sword?
What's a writer without words?

Take the sunrise from my eyes,
or the music from my mouth,
take the songs out of my ears,
take it all that I adore,
but oh God let me write once more!

"What kind of bird is that?"
I ask as she shows me the photographs she took.
"It's a cardinal. There's many around my house."
"You should stick to photography, make a career out of it, I'm sure you'd be a great photographer!"
I love taking pictures, but my odds of ever becoming famous are slim."
She says it not only admitting defeat so soon, turning away from her dream, but also the dream of her number one fan, myself...
That's a lovely cardinal then!