The Sound of the Wind

Your shadow
(immune to wind)
pass by me
and remains unharmed
in slow step.

Your quiet shadow
(no colors)
revolves
on the stones
of this floor!

Your shadow
(deep gray)
is the flag
from an unknown country
fluttering in the wind!

I scream
(mouth wide open)
at the top of the ravine
your most intimate name
and the wind
does not recognize
the sound of my voice.

I run
(with eyes closed)
the labyrinth
of your overwrought thoughts
by objects of oblivion
and what the memory keeps of you
and from the ground you trod.

I chase your shadow
(discrete projection)
for all the places where I imagine you
to hide and emit the echoes
that the wind steals from me.