Those Short Knitted Hands

On top of the black velvet of despair
I lay dreaming of a golden love
and the white satins of a safe shore
and a life where falling stars
are not just some objects that are
far from my short knitted hands
to catch and hold and pair
with the moons and the Sun.

I am tired,
tired I am of all the crowded hearts
and the deflorations of the languages
that are spoken on the crowded streets of the mind.

Ah, I am too tired to learn a new language
so far beyond my broken heart
that just had picked this tired body
from the black velvet of despair
to match with the falling stars
and to hold and cherish
and place it next to the high hills of memory
and my mandolin eyes.