Closed in the sand of time
the fruits of my waiting
give birth to whispered words
altered by silence…

fruits brake the taste
in the red of some passions
tasting like poetry
over the ephemeral…

My closed gaze behind the eyelids
dream of entire mountains,
with tall firs
under the tide of some sleep walking moments
with clenched salt between the fingers.

I watch you from beyond,
I smell you to the sandals,
I wait with the flowers in my hand
the eyes walking on the skin
to the storm,
in the esoteric
which doesn`t budge the flesh…

I wait in passion
anywhere in the arteries.
I am.