The days are mirrors
They reflect our looks
In the middle of a sensitive sky
The roses open a span
In my burning consciousness
My ideas are a little too fresh,
The smile of the morning relaxes,
Gardens of white amaranth,
Art is a winged goddess
A palette of burning colors
Walk in the meanders of the soul
In my frozen and hesitant mind,
Embraced flowers, purple tears – the night
Devours my serene illusions,
The days are mirrors,
They reflect my burnt hopes