The hand goes down through the air,
crossing a non-existent silhouette,
memories of a body,
leave my gentle me cold.

Perfumes like daggers,
sublime aromas,
cutting the wind
in empty scrolls.

Soul that is,
that lives,
that waits,
this soul of mine.

See obstacles and not the magic,
sterile spell,
creeping path,
a false noise

My hands runs through the air,
cutting the winds,
dodging daggers,
caressing the perfume of magic.