Modern Romanticism

You’ve been drenching
your outstretched hands
in damp soil,
inside those spots
you devote your toil
to the storms
that follow.

For fallen rain,
for crytallized leaves
rozen without winter
to leave its white,
drawn-out immaculacy
for you to ruin.

You transfer pain,
from yesterday’s evening
for tomorrow’s morning
you pledge safety
to sorrow.

Lights on a road
go out from your breaths
expelled from a pair
of rotting lips.

When will you fuel
the better heat
from within your heart?

When will you treat
your mind to treatment?

When will you clean
the rust on your wounds?