Sometimes intangible
I think the colored corolla
Of that flower, which waited
On opening intimidated
Of my senses:
If in the morning descends
The thorns of the red-hot
My lip
Dislocated in my body,
When gem is decomposed,
Affecting the throat from the blossoming lost
And some of languid evenings without aromas
That the outgoing voice, found the lungs, silk covered by name,
And the poisons from bearings
Of the world, by the inconsistencies
Recriminate the essence of human beings,
It remains in its state of incorruptible filtered air,
And I understand that sometimes,
That flower, blossomed and now stuck, full of candor,
Lost in my soul,
It has the name – the name that runs
My mind,
Together with violent emotion,
That never goes out, and that flower it is
nothing that residues
That I incorporated
Of you.
And then I still call
Your name after the rain.

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