Poetry poetry poetry poetry.

Even the stars, which birth, bloom and death, may take more than ten thousand human lives to ensure and express its beauty in such a natural way,

Are faded to disolve in nothingness.

Even their deaths, resulting in the dark abysses of the endless beyond sky, the last long moanings chanted, as if to compensate their so galantly past lives, shining in darkness.

Even the undaunted and so-called eternal flowers that adorn our unreachable sky,

are but fleeting maidens, chasing after the blossoming of their own lifelines, only to die afterwards, a death by no means insignificant and apart from their same beauty.

And so, I ask, what may be the beauty of the black sheet behind our twinkling sky fragrances?

Aside from being that which remains the same, amidst the endless dance of change?

Aside from being the still and silent mistery that shrowds our lives when the day is done?

Maybe it is made from the same scent as the world of dreams we enter each night, as much as that curtain is dropped upon the sky.

I wonder what has this oniric realm in store for me this night.

I wonder if the sky will show me its secrets so lovingly, in the same way I wonder about its lost tale.