You are the gem hidden again. You became a red number and from there you lie infertile. The sun faints, the fish dies, the rose ages. The north is the new south and there is no shadow of you. It is the chronicle of the "new" human, we lost you and the hollow headlines triumphed. Who accompanies the madness? Why do we sabotage our tomorrow? Why do we invest in everything, except in it?
The new generations will never know how your pages feel warm and with so much overflowing soul. They will never smell your essence, with more breath than a sigh. It will be your turn to wait for a soul in love or maybe a real sane so that you can return to be the precious stone, the diary of love, the moonlight, the work of art, the heat of the candle, the tears and the anger in letters inked We learned to watch the news, but not how to calm the cold of the heart. I do not know how long it will take for a new being to rise up again. Another being awaits you, more worthy. I do not know what the words of goodbye are.
To the printed poetry of the 21st century