They are gone
they are not there
the voices of yesterday
that once guarded my sunrise

The letters
            now kept
in a cold ditch
            remain mute
because no one speaks to them

Conversation among eyes
             of furtive smiles
provoked in the midst of the fleeting
                          moment of understanding

They are gone
             my last secure and trusting embrace
that accompanied me every night
             warmth of page,
caress of Edge and Cover

              Nude the wall
              I naked
              Both armless

I no longer find a place where to cuddle
              Where to leave my thoughts
During those unending nights
               Of solitary anxiety

The sun comes out . . .

afraid that the coldness may reach me
I desperately run towards those narrow Palaces
called Bookstores and Libraries
artifices of genius that
           extend as tireless wings

And I hide
          behind the shelves
behind their strange pages, edges and covers,
all inert and not mine.

Once more surrounded
              by voices of Men
              the strident Cacophony
suave Polyphony

docile thunder that covers
and temporarily satiates

      the voice

voice . . . of God.

 . . . once again mine . . .

D. Ramírez; July 17, MMV

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