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At times he felt happy,
when as her eyes passed over the lines,
my letters danced with sweet nuance,
and her heart, in soft swaying, hallucinates.
She trembled between shadows and lights,
with each sweetly flowing word,
sighed the wind, ephemeral crosses,
and the paper kept her remote laughter.
She described on the leaves a dream world,
where the sun caresses the golden fields,
and the murmur of the river, in a warm frown,
sang of love in its overflowing verses.
Between letters, love becomes song,
and the verse becomes a sincere dance,
she, my muse, between sighs and enchantment,
She is still alive in my lines, in my chest, a star.
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