You peek into the abyss of what you long for,
searching in my being for the longed-for truth,
but I am a whisper among melodies,
an unfinished verse, in calm, in nothing.
I am not what you expect, nor what anyone expects,
I am a river without a course, a wandering wind,
a broken compass that never grows larger,
an echo of longing that becomes distant.
And neither do I wish to be what you pretend,
nor the lighthouse that shines in foreign landscapes,
my essence is a song that you light in the air,
a subtle murmur of serene secrets.
