The voice of his heart is silent,
distant as  never exists.

It comes soaked from a rain,
and sits there and look at.

The language of his eyes,
is the only certainty.

The scent in the perfume,
the skin color,
his small fatigued feet,
are never strange for him.

His voice as he recognizes,
when  hears.

His lips,
as he sees,
delicate as petals,
ambiguous,
and the voice
- that voice -
that made his own one
*unknown.