Another interpretation of the rose

“You are the meaning of the whole universe.”
You, another interpretation of the rose,
And that?
A dream collapses every time childhood approaches
Dying of word
And he would like the clouds to die of a song
As time, let the ashes be fringes that scatter your veins, thus the whining arranged its presence, knowing that losses are the time of the echo
The one who did not surpass what was skilled in tears of stone and cloak, and the deep breaths that arrived late to the wound, whose shadows are a language that has lacked praise and ecstasy, the capacity for what boredom it can bring absence, wear out places, embrace it as a gift, and the anecdotes that the earth gives away.
Let this be the surplus of what you have inherited from the lexicons of pain, this is how you look at dusk.
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The silence was not there, when the whisper passed your revelations, the only emptiness that could see everything, the emptiness that lives tranquility, knows death, hats, helmets, clowns
Those who tire the days with their rings of fire just because of sadness, but it is strong, that is why their smiles remain rigid, as if their muscles were made of stone, this is what lights the fire, what keeps ashes in the hearts , a good reminder for those who wish to leave safely.
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The silence that lives in fear of your nakedness, afraid that the darkness will wet it more.
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This steps
This ink of certainty
A divine celebration of wonder that was not a miracle, even if it was said of a miracle.
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The distinctive sign is that you are familiar in the sky, unknown on earth, the roar of the bees indicates more than you, and as the first language of dawn, the desert introduces you to the beginning of the light called to descend like tears on your soil.
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The song that are the features of the absent person, the details of a memory, is born from a difficult imagination, the imagination of a rose, the rose as a cosmic idea, concerned more with your details, knows that the connection between you is not unknown.
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This is not a forever home
When you know that the rose is gone without “goodbye”
But withered
This obituary is an unknown language, shattered by our simple cruelty
This little aesthetic age, simple in its meaning,
And that?
Did the poet know?
Even if he knows
Did you mean shades of gold?
Remnants of the withering rose, of its death with temporary temperaments
This force makes her remain even when she is dead, and the idea of ​​her departure is a metaphor, and the idea of ​​her presence is a major metaphor.
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The pink eloquence of certainty
And Christ of the plants
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What is the weight of the rose?
Innocence, air, adoration and tears
Or absent kisses?
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The irony is that now you are looking for solitude, in a room full of poetry books, I don’t know how you believed it.
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The hair, like a cry in a trance, looks like a rose.
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The mirror that reflected the rose was sad.
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I’m going home, despite the rooms in my presence, despite the unit too, the rooms that never knew the rose, they were left a place that did not see the sunrise, it was as if it were impossible, the windows knew it, but they never knew stripped, the sides of the panic are missing, of going into the dark this whole period, and has the harshness of ghosts, and the frown of grandmothers, and since no one leaves abandoned houses like rats, the dust weighed with their steps abandoned, but in the end no one abandons his life and is filled with silence and darkness.
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The rose is in the hand of the poet, covered with language.
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The rain
Beautiful streets of shells
That no longer has grass, roses,
The rain is just a sincere coincidence.
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To wither is the eternal banishment of the rose.
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The rose is the widow of heaven
No one waited for her on earth but withering, before her the squares, the balconies and the sinking women
It was a cool catch for pottery.
The table is complete
It becomes another fish in the house, it dies quickly.
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Why didn’t I wait for the end well?
Facing the many names, and great humiliation and murderers
Like mirrors
If I can not
Like the rose and its withering heritage.