Your words- fragrant,
but ephemeral roses-
they hit the wall of time
and little by little,
their echo extinguishes.
Why so many things
that we can't stop dying?

There are things
you want to remember,
but remain hidden,
pulsing like a heart
deep in your being,
feeding you
with their essence,
making you crave
something undefined,
so familiar,
yet so distant,
something that seems
to be grafted in you,
but it has a life of its own.

There are things
I can't remember,
but there are so many
that I can't forget,
like your voice!
Hearing it again,
my heart blossomed,
even pierced
by sadness' thorn.

Tags: Poetry