The eye fatigue fades among the crawling sounds,
I hang almost kissed by the sadness
In the green leafs of the neighbor’s yard,
Smoking the last azure of the sky.
You are an Afternoon Angel, without a face or features,
As old as the afternoons that bathed this earth in gold,
Tired of the complaints over the emptiness of the sky,
Whilst with an arm movement you cover the light.
There are particles of will hanging in abeyance,
That as picked-up flowers die in the hands of the night.
In every living there is a moment of yearning
For who we are and we don’t know.
Seated in the edge of conscience, you grow along with darkness,
The afternoons immerse inside your clear eyes,
Same as the seafoam that soothed
Your love between earth and water.
You ride on the afternoon dreams,
Without even scorching the corner of your mooncolored tunic,
With the patience of wisdom that doesn’t know itself
And the fulfillment of your suspicious mission.
All curiosities are brought to rest by the gibbering,
By the sadness poured in a teacup,
By the signs that you leave in the afternoon’s corner,
O Silent Angel – O Darkest Rose.
The sparkling stones of illusions in your hair
Mirror the starry night that fascinated the Magi,
You look almost alive: with wounds like us,
As soon as beauty starts to vanish in the air of the night.