We often speak
Too much on success.
For the world has eclipsed
All the puddles of love.
All the tears that stay on the ground
And do not raise themselves as a reflection
Of what toil considered
To be ever-more
As the one to create the lasting love.
Love was once a mere mound of soil,
And bled nothing.
Love merely ceased, because it never started itself
On the journey to take place in another’s heart.
No heart bled,
No heart shut
Itself, because there was no defense
Against the irony
Of what cannot be expected,
When there is no one to raise a head
And kiss the delicate opening
Of another’s neck.