Life often tells us fairy tales
to distract us from its rushing too fast to grasp it.

The Rose teaches
how to wither gracefully
and die by falling
slowly
to the ground.

As if withered
you sit around the table of silence.
Gem that has no color,
you pass like the time of boredom.
And you are no more than a memory.

A gloomy sky
falls to the offended earth.
Boredom sews a bitter fabric.
We are but shadows
under a bad moon.
I would like to learn a new prayer,
a breath,
that gives me life again.
Finally.

Harsh words rot in my throat.

Whether I pronounce them or not
I know
that a bad wind will sooner or later bring them
as a bitter gift to your bed of hate.

Mother,
you are the pain
that has no end.
I have your eyes in mine,
your smile is in every smile
that life tears from me.

I hear your words
playing in the air,
happy harp,
and vibrate waves
of ancient joy.
Whenever it flows
the water you drank,
every time it blows
the wind that passed in your hair,
whenever the earth
generates new seeds
like those that you
cultivated for me,
I hear yout words.
And I breathe your face.