This Night

I may write about the sky and sunshine,
Or maybe write about a desolate spring history.


I might say that the time goes too fast,
and I can not to keep it between my fingers.


The darkness night is as the usually is those last day,
I wander without to know if the stars are above me.


The lips impregnated in the blue space,
I may write about how much I loved those lips.


I know the tree feel the winter is gone.
I know that she feel my love stayed in the hill.


I may write a sad history about it,
As the sweet honey lost the essence.


This night is more darkness as the usually was.
Not moon, not crickets singing in the field.


Her crystal skin marked with thousand sonnets,
My hands wounded for those loved verses.


I may write many things, rain tear of a cloudy day,
I may write about the linens which touched us in one minute.


The day went away and I couldn’t reach it,
Now is over, as the music of my piano.


I may write a lot more like we did together one night,
Or maybe I can save it inside my forever.


She loved my verses, me, I loved her simple space,
Full of mysteries to find in each corner of her room.


I may write the most withered verses of one life,
Catastrophic melodies on the space.


The time is gone, the silence has started,
Who’s care my verses, my writing, if she is not here.


I write sadly this night.