1989

I don't know what will remain
with my absence.
The child will not be born.
The wide land
that I blindly walked
shall be closed.

The side of that cloud
will not caress the horizon.
But the sun
with its heat will be boring.
My love, you won't be here,
suburb of my heart,
innards of my existence,

I will never see you again
twisting your will
in the clumsy caress
of loneliness.
The only thing I want.

A fair death.