Sepulcral

Searching in the prints of animal life;
those whispers of sand,
of holding hands of the dead
and my friends.

Away.

Oh, there, the plains and the stars laugh at me for the lost
and the time that went to somewhere,
in between the lines of dirty hands, old books and hot pens.

Oh, that nights of rough beds,
mountains of bodies searching souls and some angels' dust in the eyes.

People.

I'm forgetting (that feeling).
The touch.
And the hug.
The frozen voice and images that fly through wires.

I miss the tongues,
unprisioned by wines and the sound of bottles, emptied by words.