LAST CYCLE © 2008

Distressed is the moment, in the icy indifference,

Of the beloved who walks, without a glance aside.

At the window, hidden behind the curtain,

A treasure pulses, in a maiden's yearning.

The racing heart, fervent illusion,

Ignores the future, with no imminent rush.

Dreams of being a woman, worthy of love,

Wife, lover, as time turns over.

But fate has faces, dual and cruel,

A daytime fugitive, among veils and rings.

Perhaps one day, without example or glory,

It will betray vows, getting lost in history.

Or who knows, devoted to a sacred temple,

In lost reveries, in a tangled dream.

Thus, the treasure at the window, silently sighs,

While life, indifferent, spins by.

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