It's difficult to write
when you have a lot inside
and just a couple of shaky
hands

the light of the moon
touch the lake
And the birds are already
resting
Near,
somewhere

Tonight i'm
short of words
but not of senses
not of heartbeats,
not of loving you
little

a poet suffers
at midnight
and the silence
fleet, fleet and
floats so much
that you feel
noise,

inside
on the edges
on the fingers
In the eyes
in the soul
in the middle
of the centers
from the ...