that's all there is to put on the tablecloth, all to hand over looking at the blue-green of your eyes

the heartbeats raised in passion in careful work

weaving like spiders beneath the shadows

with the risk of dying frozen by uncertainty

by the distance by the cold of the absence

delivering illusions and hopes to the mystery of the night

seeing with the moonlight

dreaming of the stars

with the kisses of sweet lips

counting the words, the pleas and the prayers

forgetting the threads of the past

weaving with them the web of a future

  making it resistant to unforgiving weather

making it home and mansion.