A bare tree stands,
Whose sole company
Is the memories
Of the joyful songs of the birds,
Of the tender touches of the delicate leaves.

Alas,
All the leaves are scattered,
The birds laid upon the cold ground.

The howling of the wind
Chills his poor trunk.
The tears of the cruel sky
Attach their cold sorrows unto the bleak branches.

But see!
A lonely ray of light,
Piercing through the grey clouds,
Gently brushes the drops of rain.
Drops of rain?
Nay!
For what appears before my eyes
Are drops of rainbow.
Glorious beauty of the heart and the soul.

A forgotten grave,
Half stands in a deserted graveyard.
Those who knew him
Have long departed this earth.
Even the little babe-in-arms,
The land no more has any memories of their steps.
The only tears weeping
On the stone
Are those of the rain.
The sole kiss touching the withered name
Is the caress of the harsh wind.
Its sole embraced is that
Of a thorny bush
Encircling the stone.
In its hidden haven,
A family of birds
Is grateful for the obscure nest,
This forsaken place which offers them
Secluded quietness.

Love is a wandering tomb,
A casement
Enclosing the decaying remains
Of a once beating heart.

Its very existence
Withers the heart,
Just as ruthlessly
That disease kills the body.

But alas,
If the rotten flesh takes the loveliest soul
To the cold of the grave,
The gangrened heart
Is spreading its poison to the body,
Unmerciful forced to walk,
Alive in its death.

In the chaos of my heart,
Still is the night.

In the cries of my soul,
Quiet are the stars.

In the torment of my pain,
Peaceful is the Moon.

In the darkness of my life,
Beautiful is nature.

Writing poetry,
The Moon my only reader.

Writing poetry,
The words flowing without,
Only the pain left within.

Writing poetry,
Life in words,
Words in my life,
The only certitude.

Writing poetry,
Everything else lost in the wind.

Writing poetry,
The Moon lighthing my page.

Writing poetry,
Losing myself in the words.

Writing poetry,
The words never lost.