possibly the night

It is possible that the night,

dawn between my fingers,

that a lost thought,

invite me to waste my time,

to catch me suddenly,

in a silent moment,

of a utopian joke,

hesitant in its foundations.

So far and so precise,

I am left feeling today,

a vagabond in art,

to know who I am.

In my cautious wait,

the afternoon rains in ashes,

as imploring my blood,

that moves away from my veins,

a second more grace,

in his anonymous game,

for tomorrow at dawn,

someone give him a smile

I expose my face to the dew,

to rid him of asperities,

of those who left me,

without my stars speakers.

Some ignorant says to me,

but I had on the way,

So many books that spoke to me,

like the ones I've never read,

and from those people I remember,

between streets and bricks,

words that woke up,

of my voice to infinity.

I have not counted how many times,

I gave licenses to my soul,

I have not counted how many times,

I went back home.

It is possible that the night,

accompany me on the sidewalks,

with my body drawn,

by the shadow of the tiles,

and in a sibylline corner,

a rose and a bee,

they fall in love forever,

under the shelter of a fence.