YOUR FACE IN THE SKY

The vesper tonight is more magical than ever.

The emotions in my heart

seem like the petals of an old rose

in this November

that chisels in the soul

the most poignant nostalgia.

And here I am.

I don't have

anything more to ask of life.

I feel like I'm Commander Kirk

in an adrift Enterprise.

Even Spock

(Leonard Nimoy),

even my best friend

has left this planet.

There are times when I think

I have already consumed all my days,

and I try to absorb all the anxieties of Creation.

The pain of my fellow men torments me,

and I pray You:

In this earthly trial of mine,

give me so much strength,

of the universe Heavenly Mother.

The frost,

in this vesper turning to night,

has imprisoned the soul in a glacier,

and you, my Love,

you are not here to melt it.

There is no longer your smile,

no longer are your lips to rekindle the flames

that, in those days,

burned like an indomitable blaze.

In these first wailings of the night,

sadness resharpened in me

all the thorns that lay concealed

waiting to spring up again.

Salty drops roll down,

on my cheeks,

like the soft April rain,

and they are lost

among the moon's chiaroscuro

that inlays the crystal

of the sad chalice I hold in my fingers.

Instant after instant,

I fight against the desert of my days,

and I attempt to create a homeostasis

in the world of my soul.

Only along the path of nostalgia,

I can meet my reflected self.

Devoid of hope,

I wait for the rising of a new sun

and, who knows,

of new hope.

The stars amaze me

in the stillness of fantasies,

in the chimeras

that leave the sky at the dawn's break,

and I call to you,

with timbres of veiled melancholy.

Your face in the sky,

it is a sparkle that illuminates the Creation.

Without hope,

I try to disintegrate my nostalgia.

In torment, I glimpse the essence of my life,

yet, I bask in this sweet melancholy.

Wistfulness, melancholy.

I fear that the sun is already about to rise.