inside the poem
I unveil your core
crossing its mystery
here but there
I draw you:
shadow
center of no one
whether I don't know yet
if it will exist.
When everything that is,
iff we’ll not know,
iff it’ll be disintegrated,
iff there will be no love in its timelessness,
and we will be left in vestiges
that too will leave us behind;
wow, what poems, you,
when you write inside them:
“Hablará por espejos,
[Shall speak through mirrors,]
Hablará por oscuridad
[Shall speak through darkness]
Por sombras
[Through shadows]
Por nadie.
[Through no one]”
And still knowing it, you sentence:
“nadie es del color más profundo
[no one is
of the deepest color]”