Holy Lord, it is the sword of your agony, You! still in the lines of my memories, empty of the wind's gait, lonely of breathless fear, stripped of old rags.
Me. Fleeting dove of the sky, sky! that wiped your sleeplessness, reaching the kisses of ice, which were kisses of contempt.
I. Constant love of the days, you passed without seeing me in the leaves of the tree that tears my breath, sigh of your kisses.
Me. Cold dawn, you left in suspense, you would return to love us and channeled in memory, you left the trails of mist, traces of dry bones.
