The same as the child cries

when he loses his tempera

and his drawings

are left without landscapes

 

As the night cries when it waits

for the moon's glimmer and its silhouette

are missing

 

In the same way the sky cries

when the wind frays the blue

and its shades

 

Thus my eyes cry and they do not stop crying;

from so much crying,

lifeless amidst deaf cries,

they keep on crying

 

And though I cry I do not fear death, I know it closely;

I have literally been there many times...

under false smiles,

under dead pupils...

 

© Noris Roberts