LOVE IS NOT...

 Already not even verses I write, only it stays

 This one to dream of tears dyed,

 And a distant complaint in the oblivion

 Distant blue of your voice of sedates.

 Love is not, is something that it imitates

 The desmembranza of the fallen rose-bush,

 Where already not even the shades do nest,

 Not even the wind in rounds of crystal causes trouble.

 Something that yesterday was an iris of my source,

 Freshness of my night, and softly

 Luminary in my bloomed path.

 

 

 Something that in my agony still I retain,

 Because it is the only truth that I have

 And I cannot start it of my life.