colorful rain

After this rain,
I am not lonesome.
Who says, this rain is not
its play of drops on the gutter,
when in a far land,
in the Buddha’s territory,
a restless heart
reviews the poems of your eyes
and moistens his heart
with the perfume of being with you?


Consign your hands to me.
Open your eyes to me.
Entrust your arms to me,
Because with you, I am a pleasant poem,
brimful in love.


The smell of rain comes,
the smell of night.
The moon sheds
light on my hair.
The river is silent,
and I want you,
My mirror

Sun’s Ardor

Those who revere the presence of night
And the splendid solitude of Jehovah
perceive the coming of daybreak
And God’s words
like an enlightened whistle,
Or the sun’s ardor
On a quiet universe.

By Fatima F.