In This Night, the Colors of a Sad Violinist
With longing, the thought of her burns,
secret — mischievous, rather sinful touches,
curls of hair,
dissolved by white breasts
And screams scream painfully in the temples.
It's a long time before dawn.
Imagination played out,
on the edges of soft beds,
catching her trembling shadows.
This night she is not here,
she left me, still hope wrapped in a white handkerchief.
The moon sang over the plain,
cheering the warm wind,
which, like unhappy divorced women,
wept and cried in the branches of the pines,
under which I waited for it.
In this night, the colors of a sad violinist.
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