Because it resembles a face
on which time marks its passing—my soul.
Because it has traveled often
from heart to heart without a break—my soul.
Because it has served a bit too much—
a bit too often said "I love you" as well—my soul.
Your soul yet has known how to please me
since I cannot free myself from it—your soul.
And because in a thousand deep creases
so many passengers reach its shores—my soul.
It is similar to suffering,
this old friend from childhood—my soul.
That it has slept in endless beds
for the eternity of a few nights—my soul.
Your soul yet has managed to take hold of me
since I cannot defend myself from your soul.
Because it does not have many pages
left at the end of its book of pictures—my soul.
How often when it would like to laugh,
tears hide in its smile—my soul.
And because when in its eyes the bird falls,
summing up the sorrows of the world—my soul.
Your soul knew how to ambush me,
months that have withstood so many sieges—your soul.
Because today it makes me live out
the first chapter of my book—your soul.
Because in my eyes it is so sweet
that it rivals spring water—your soul.
Because it makes up part of my flesh
that it is rooted in my earth—your soul.
Your soul knew how to make me write
those words that I did not know how to say: "I love you."
Your soul knew how to make me write
those words that I did not know how to say: "I love you."