Your Sun-deprived Shadow

If I were never there,

to let you slip in between

a rising cosmos

that opens to a cemetery,

then I would fail to

swallow your goodbyes

or even compare your fingers  

with fervid lilacs

and dust-laden old streets

where I hold my windows close. 

But then I find you nearer

to roofs that shiver

with incoherent indecisions,

when a thousand rains

extracted from

your sunken cheeks,

kindle the vocals

of an early bird,

so as to say that

the spring is here

and so are we

but the splendour of suns,

whose shadows revise

undead funerals,

is what makes me

a premonition

to sweeten your lips,

if you would let me,

and only if I were ever there.