An angel spoke in tears inscribed on ink and paint
She wrote a note concealed on capes of time
Regardless her wings, never she proclaims a saint
Neither was she a specter, worthy to demand a dime
Was and never be the mistress of a fortune master
Is and never was the token of an empty cloister
She was the sweet cascade running among the vessels of an Arian army
Or the flowers detailing the scenery of the Patriarch’s gardens
Sweetness likeness were displayed at the seductive tinkers of her blindfold insights
While senseless whispers were disturbing at the inquiring silence of my delusive madness
With an admirable bliss of darkness she cast my obsessive corruption into an oblivious shadow
Her hate consumed her memoirs as my image despaired in wallows along her recalls veiled in narrow
My muse, my angel
Speak an echo rightful enough to redeem my terror
Let thy shine embrace my misty veil and reveal my error
My angel, my goddess
Grab my hand and reflect my sorrows with devotion
Grant me mercy and accept the tears of my emotions
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It would take a woman to do that kind of work-lets hope she hears your plea