Doubts?

How many gestures are necessary

to undress the sadness?

How many words?

How many nights?

How many abysses must I save

to love the poet?

Or is this silence only

to dress ourselves of death?

Or these hands are the gap

that we will never confront?

What gesture touches my body

in shades and frenzies?

What's the hunger?

Which arrow did sink on me

the poison and his secret?