My soul is so tempered and tamed
in that temple of a little bloom
forgotten and wild,
lost in the wilderness of your eyes.
I am the beloved of insignificant bruises of beauties
that do not need their names to be announced
upon the masquerade parties of fame.
the unnamed solders of splendour
draped in the fashion of modesty,
the true heroes,
unknown martyred
on the crest of a brittle stem of thorns,
the sparks of blossoms
on the ladder of spikes,
who in a dew on their face
are more translucent then all the chandeliers,
in a flake
more replete than all the winters.
