(Madrid)
The shadow of my soul
flees through a sunset of alphabets,
a mist of books
and words.
The shadow of my soul!
I have reached the line where
nostalgia ceases,
and the teardrop is transformed
into spiritual alabaster.8
The shadow of my soul!
The balled yarn of my grief
is running out,
but reason remains, as does the substance
of my old noonday of lips,
of my old noonday
of glances.
A confused labyrinth
of smoky stars
entangles my hopes,
which are nearly faded.
The shadow of my soul!
And a hallucination
milks my gaze.
I see the word “love”
crumbled to bits.
My nightingale!
Nightingale!
Are you still singing?