Poetry chose your hair
to write its dreams to the night,
threads of moon, soft sparkles,
a canvas of stars, secrets and masters.
Under the starry mantle, the breeze sways,
the breeze, soft, mischievous toy,
fluttering the lines that offer
whispers of love in beauty.
Your hair, waterfalls of memory,
where shadows draw sighs,
and each strand, an eternal verse,
weaving destiny in its twists and turns.
The lines intertwine in dance,
marking the compass of silent tenderness,
the caresses of the wind, its praise,
like a poem that never ends.
Thus, in the night, poetry peeps out,
writing the story of a soul on fire;
in each braid, a heartbeat that takes
the perfume of life from the air.
And at dawn, when the sun wakes up,
dreams and longings will find their way;
your hair, a verse that never closes,
will always be the refuge of the divine.