Matza Di Lourde
.webp)
Your name
Strummed between chords
The memories of your face
all so unwillingly,
of distance and longing.
A promise made in the night
of luck and will.
When the flowers of this dry season
wither, will you come and see me?
Winter arrives when a man wants.
A promise made in the night
of cutting and willingness.
If pleasure drags me to Serralves
between Trás-Os-Montes and Invicta,
you will find myself distressed,
lost in all these places.
A promise made of love can darken life.
Let it be dusk in this poem.
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