He has gone. No activity, this is my letter,
The one rustling in the shade of a tree.
My bottle in the sea lives with me, exiting
From me when seas are rustling like pages.
The drawers and cupboards are full,
I move in and out of my heaven;
In a conversation my fears depart as I lean
Into an armchair with gravel on my shoes.
He has gone from the apologising and the waste
Of the days and nights, pages after pages wronging
The air, as conversations lurk and dissipate,
Reports of clattering keyboards are prominent.
One day he came and turned his head to me,
A shaft of light broke in the room (smelling of caffeine):
My head lay on his head with the books of gold,
I wanted his activity in a loving way once more.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem