Through our inner senses
the god of nostalgia passes
as it passes in our souls
a wavering angel
to know of himself
its frosted essence
if I say
then god says
if I give form to thinking then god
becomes tender
I do not seek to dilate the ego
in a dry poem
I sing the poem as praise
I pray it
in a chorus of voices
of the others I who was
I lend him my mouth to burn
and know the pleasures of the world
If I illuminate it is God who illuminates
if I bend as I walk
it is to hold him in me
with the care of love
that dawns in the early birds
I am only volume of him
and he the essence of me
I resurrect in every poem
and he resurrects in me
by him who puts metaphors
in the telegram of the moment
to bless
and I make approaches
planning terraces in the lucidity
and if I sleep he touches me up
paint the sketch of the poem
through the clearings of my voice
dictates me its purity
the error
the unfortunate anger
it shows me the balcony of adversity
it confided in me
and I relax possessed
docile to his meekness
