YET LIFE FLOWS

Enclosed in the coffin of hope,

it is in that chest that I preserve

the Fata Morgana of my feelings,

of my emotions.

Yet life flows like an unstoppable river,

like a delta, it branches out,

as it wills and when it wills.

Although my years,

now numerous,

continue relentlessly to glide away,

my heart perpetually burns,

as it did when it was a child.

But today,

it is still unable to guess why

continually on sea-rocks,

they end up breaking,

its longings.

Desires that punctually eclipse

in those plains of the sky

faintly illuminated

by the silvery reverberations of the moon,

by the shimmering flashes of the stars,

in the hour when the rorid frost

descends on a tender rosebud.

Darkness is folding its last blankets.

No longer can one hear the breeze

that yields the theater to the dawn's first colorful vagaries,

to its light streaks chiseling the universe.

It is the prelude to a shimmering morning dawning.

And so,

in the way the new day yawns,

a new illusion of love breaks through.

But is it logical to cultivate fantasies

in this now stacked time?

Or, more reasonable, would it be

hermetically to seal the chest of hope?

Quien sabe?

Enclosed in the coffin of hope,

it is in that chest that I preserve

the Fata Morgana of my feelings,

of my emotions.

Yet life flows like an unstoppable river,

like a delta, it branches out,

as it wills and when it wills.

Although my years,

now numerous,

continue relentlessly to glide away,

my heart perpetually burns,

as it did when it was a child.

But today,

it is still unable to guess why

continually on sea-rocks,

they end up breaking,

its longings.

Desires that punctually eclipse

in those plains of the sky

faintly illuminated

by the silvery reverberations of the moon,

by the shimmering flashes of the stars,

in the hour when the rorid frost

descends on a tender rosebud.

Darkness is folding its last blankets.

No longer can one hear the breeze

that yields the theater to the dawn's first colorful vagaries,

to its light streaks chiseling the universe.

It is the prelude to a shimmering morning dawning.

And so,

in the way the new day yawns,

a new illusion of love breaks through.

But is it logical to cultivate fantasies

in this now stacked time?

Or, more reasonable, would it be

hermetically to seal the chest of hope?

Quien sabe?