Truth

And I wonder

what shovel took that dirth,

what hand moved it, where it is,

now, that part of my heart taken from me

one night, a year or a day long,

that marked me with an emptiness

crying, to this day, to the sky:

"Love! Love!"

You, soul whose path I cross,

are you that piece? Do you hold it with you,

waiting for me to deliver it

to those who lost it "before

of ever having it"?

Or are you a mirror that I will love

with all, all my heart,

whose injustices I will suffer

and to which I will return

continuing to hope

that it is you, my love?

Maybe that piece has flown away,

And will never return. Maybe fear,

superficiality, selfishness, have

hurled it to the stars.

Perhaps that piece has fled,

and will never return.

And I wonder

what shovel took that dirth,

what hand moved it, who took

away the body from this shadow

who shadows loves, who on shadows feeds.