I do not recall your name, but I know it is exact
to the glow of the soil that drives summers crazy
I know in counterpart, your little smile,
capable of opening dark hearts,
capable of scattering with its tiny wings
the cruel beads of disaster.
I recognize your aroma like the waltz
where infernos find rest.
And it isn’t that I’ve lost the flow of your eyes:
it’s that it has made me lose my happy appetite that sings in your look,
and it is the foolish accomplice of my bad memory
that leads me to embrace the rubble
where I saw you sitting
and incline myself towards the sun that made the light for your hair a wandering knight.
Similar is your name. I call you unceasingly
when at night I send the moon to look for you,
when in life I trace you in the art,
when I imprison air in my lungs
and instead of pronouncing your name that I forgot
I verify the mystery,
the certainty,
of knowing that you’re not simply a name,
but,
simply a miracle.