Garden of foam

Sometimes, liquid moon, you bathe my flowers

With sweet shadows that tremble in the wind.

If the air could bring me your voice

Like a whisper of the sea on my chest,

Perhaps the pain would not twist its root

So profound, so deep in my flesh.

And between the branches of this dark garden

The smiles that your mouth wove would sprout,

Like foam and wind on the waves of oblivion.