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You climb the ladder of my thoughts
and yet flowers repent time spent
because your action comes too late.
You’ve destroyed a magic garden.
Perhaps you’ve done this half unconsciously
but my body and soul are now
the recipients of a million wounds
that will conform a landscape of scars.
There was a time when I believed
the voice of your soul was breath to me.
Now it just comes as a stare (stair) of winds
moved by the same chained melody.
And while I look up the lifting clouds
watching the sun come up again
I know I finally learnt something
from my inner voice of delusion.
© June 2019 Marta Pombo Sallés