What happened to the poet that you dont grow any more flowers in my garden, no one writes a poem to the song of my footsteps, how vain is the mud that you dont get rain, you dont even smell the flowers of the night, you dont smell our night, I still see you in this intimate square, I still dont see anyone from this only tree of the night, I still see this old you, but again, except for your black eyes, I dont see any more night , sadness of the eyes. You understand the deer, you understand the passage of the light of magic, you understand the watergown, the waves, and the oars, you understand the silence of every song, you understand it, you understand, I dont see anyone more intimate than you in this field, I dont see anyone from this only tree of the night, I still see this me, this you are older, but from So, I do not see any other night except your black eyes, I am so drunk of this existence that I tremble that it rains that I have you in the evening of the burning sonnets, I have you full of burning, full of my day, whether I am colored or alert, see with you, how awake I am, how many happy I am, I still do not see you in this field, I do not see anyone more intimate than this only tree of the night, I still see this me, this is still this. You are older, but I dont see you again at night except your black eye.
