When I heard his story of exile
I knew that impiety had no name,
and the tough sun fell like iron
on us, and I understood death.
When he said, innocent,
man is nothing, nothing to hope,
the white labyrinth of love moved my flesh,
and grew the time of guilt.
Blind words in the afternoon showed
his struggle against the sea,
and the sun rolled
like a rotting dark rose.
When I heard his story of exile
great desolation came, mourning,
that moved the steps in the shadow,
and the incessant trap of a dream.
He pronounced his name, and a long
solitude had already started to separate us.
When He Said His Name
the white labyrinth of love moved my flesh / and grew the time of guilt
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Alan Cabello / Pexels