Natural speed, please.
November 1918. (Granada.,)
Today I feel in my heart
a vague tremor of stars,
but my path is lost
in the soul of the fog.
The light breaks my wings
and the pain of my sadness
it wets the memories
at the source of the idea.
All the roses are white,
as white as my sorrow,
and they are not white roses.
that it has snowed on them.
Before they had the iris.
It also snows on the soul.
The snow of the soul has
kissing flakes and scenes
that sank into the shadow
or in the light of the one who thinks them.
Snow falls from the roses
but that of the soul remains,
and the grip of the years
he makes a shroud with them.
Will the snow thaw
when death takes us?
Or will there be another snow later
and other more perfect roses?
Will peace be with us
How Christ teaches us?
Or will it never be possible
the solution to the problem?
What if love deceives us?
Who life encourages us?
