LETTERS TO DESTINY © 2012

They arrive late,

The dialogues have already been processed

In imaginary interviews

That, in silence, I drew in my fates.

Each word, each question,

Has already echoed in empty rooms,

Where only my shadow responded

To the faces that never appeared.

It was there, on the stage of the mind,

That conversations came to life,

But now, as they arrive late,

They are echoes of a forgotten story.

What I have to say

Has already been spoken in internal murmurs,

In solitary confessions,

Where time is eternal.

They arrive late, like echoes of a dream,

That has already dissipated in the wind,

And the answers, once so clear,

Now fade into forgetfulness.

There remain the interviews of nothing,

Drafts of an absent dialogue,

And what remains, in the end,

Is the stillness of a merciful soul.

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