With You

With You

Because the soul does not live in things

but in the bold action of deciphering them,

I love the light that encourages my senses.

A thousand times I've wanted to find out 

who I am. After so many names,

so much crossing of my own compass,

I could hug sand for several centuries.

Watch silence pass and embrace it as well.

The truth is not in me every second.

It is a fleeting attempt to catch the ungraspable.

Truth is not in anyone, it's further

from a king than from beggar.

If someone thinks about pursuing it,

do not forget this: fire has always 

been a harbinger of decline,

the precursor intensity of oblivion.

When my eyes return to my origin,

I ask for one last gift.

 Nothing else.

Write all my words in my grave,

what I said a thousand times

and what I would have liked 

to have said at least once.

Keep my words nearby,

the ones that I used to love,

the ones that I learned along the way.

Include me within them,

do not fear their weight.

Treat them with respect.

Place them

             over my heart.

Truth is not in anyone, 

but words could engender it.

Maybe then, the words I said,

the ones you were accustomed to hearing,

will lie down beside me with tenderness.