Death is the moment of siesta
When the eve drops climb up the sierra.
I need your kisses badly.
I still love the things that once were gold:
The flowers, colorful and odorous,
Lonely walk in the misty field,
The sun between the two peaks,
The milky moon.
I still write poetry
And nothing happens; customary glance.
Where is that leonine poise?
In the repository we read countless names
Unknown by our childish knowledge.
The photograph was not there,
Nor the piercing cries.
Either faces and no face
Or faces without names.