spitted

 
there is no distance that the word does not travel
there is no word that in a tear is not oozing
or that in a braided breeze does not smell spring
or stay quiet floating in a sea of ​​gray greenish blues

there is no place for tears in the wet body of the sea

time has a beautiful body that we can't touch
sublimates in silences such as the gull flying
swallows our moments as if they were nothing

there is no place for tears in the wet body of the sea

memory lives in a cave by the brink of a luxurious brothel
makes us dreaming of pledges of gods in men's mouths

there is no place for tears in the wet body of the sea