There is a poet within me that God has told me… On ravines, spring leaves behind The wreaths she brought of the beginnings Of her ephemeral and spectral joy… Through the dewy meadow, The joyful steps of childhood are heard. Depleted from any yearnings, to remain, Watching hours pass as if smiling… A day flowering with Light capitals… Softened violins of silence… Boredom where only to be bored is seducing… [Outro] My soul kisses the painting it has created… I sit by the centuries lost And cogitate on their profile of inertia and flight.
