Your breast is enough for my heart, 
and my wings for your freedom. 
What was sleeping above your soul will rise 
out of my mouth to heaven. 

In you is the illusion of each day. 
You arrive like the dew to the cupped flowers. 
You undermine the horizon with your absence. 
Eternally in flight like the wave. 

I have said that you sang in the wind 
like the pines and like the masts. 
Like them you are tall and taciturn, 
and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage. 

You gather things to you like an old road. 
You are peopled with echoes and nostalgic voices. 
I awoke and at times the birds fled and migrated 
that had been sleeping in your soul.