Vas Doloris

To Luis G. Monge I come from the remote borders of the land of oblivion. My songs will not sound beneath your balconies, I am the singer of the broken sanctuaries. Artist, dreamer, sensitive and tender, my music is a voice of affirmation . . . I am like a winter twilight in love’s garden. I love the fire of the sun. My delights are the flaming rose, the bleeding pink, and I love the white swans on the lakes and the blue clouds in the wind. I love the sad—for life is Pain— I love your black half-opened eyes fixed in an unknown direction where dead loves are forgotten. I know full well that love is sleep . . . and my soul sleepless. You are not to blame for my sorrow. You are a dream . . . I call you when I wake and you do not come! You can come only as does death, silent and fatal. You are anxiety, no matter, come; my heart is strong . . . Shed your petals in my hands, faded rose. I knew in my dreams that love is good and today, impenitent, a rebel against love, I weep upon the lilies of your breast and kiss you on the forehead.