SONNET XCVIII

And this word, this paper written
by the thousand hands of a single hand
does not rest in you, does not serve for dreams.
It falls to the earth: there it continues.

No matter that light or praise
were spilled and rose from the glass
if they were a tenacious tremor of wine,
if your mouth was dyed amaranthine.

It no longer needs the lagging syllable
that which the reef brings and withdraws
from my memories, the incensed spume,

It no longer needs a single thing but to write your name.
And even though my sombre love silences it
much later the spring will speak it.