Marble and pigeons

In his skin he kept the mystery,

of history and of night,

the stories of your nights,

in the solitude of the city,

and in the apathetic concert,

of his own loneliness.

His right foot brought luck,

they said,

that's why it always shone,

despite the neglected opaque,

of the rest of his stamp,

and her allowed nudity,

defying local laws,

it was simply ignored,

maybe because of the routine of seeing her.

Marble breath,

he sighed in silence,

for the indifferent suns,

and the badly loved moons,

a brilliant work,

of a mediocre sculptor,

that seduced her a winter,

in the gloom of his workshop,

while your partner,

I gathered jasmine for her.

Until a cloudy nap,

winters later,

an old man in a brown cap,

He fixed the cane in his hand,

on the gray tiles,

and stroked his foot if shine,

as erasing the reproaches,

drowned in the past.

She came down from her pedestal,

He stood in front of him,

the same eyes,

also the same smile,

and in the middle of a hug,

full of lost time,

he covered her with his woolen sackcloth,

she accommodated her hair,

and he dropped his cane,

just to start again.