I feel their hands   
    settle the heart,   
    when it cracks   
    beats and strong as a   
    young heart   
    that   
    inexperienced   
    prepares to declare   
    love.   
    Stuffed lust secret   
    simulacrum   
    existence of unknown   
    outline wrinkles   
    of days in vain,   
    wrapped indecent notes   
    and tired smiles.   
    Cursed be your voice,   
    never fallen angel,   
      who come to listen and tell me 
    that life   
    the morning is barefoot,   
    that opens up new dances.   
    Mourners are notes   
    of these parallel lines   
    now and always   
    lead me   
    the point of no return.   
  
 
 
 