The pearl speaks a language all its own

and the seagull, besides Him,

is the only one who comprehends and answers

with its mourning shrieks of sorrow.



Such a pity,

that we remain deaf and blind,

and not heed His generous warnings.

Ignorant are we,

for now even the petals of the tearose weep,

when they hear the whispers of the wind.



But that is not all that rifles me on this very

moment.

For you wee,

the lilacs have an incessant chatter

that bores the lovely little eavesdropping creatures.



How can one have thoughts

sane,

when southeast of the heart

there remains an ache.

An ache, color of ebony

An ache that has been raped of its tears.

An ache, with not a whisper

nor a laugh or a sigh

because it cannot hear from such a distance.

Most undoubtedly

An ache caused by the one who is loved