Modern Romanticism

On this road
with countless grains,
having bloomed nothing
but what comes from
naked wounds.

Is it color,
or it is a void?
I've been reviving
what I've brought down,
remembering the pain
I've let become
these swirls,
these storms.

Love has become
a bleak bitterness,
a flavor on a pair
of muted lips.

Who will I be,
as soon as I see
that last stone?

It could be
on the final mile
when I might speak,
when I could reveal
who I should become.