When you still cried with your eyes shining
and wore the school uniform
and beamed with every toy your grandma gave you,
there were many birds soaring in your eyes,
flying high up, beyond the sky.
There were vast meadows with flowers,
with colours never seen before.
I wanted to tell you: on the rare occasions you look at me
I no longer understand your eyes, for in them are neither birds
nor meadows.
I see only the look of youth, the one all too ready to execute the sentence …
I find myself guilty beyond doubt
of countless hours embracing fictitious beings
instead of holding you, kissing you, lulling you to sleep.
I left you counting those birds on your own,
lost in the depths of the meadows where I last saw you
tumbling in the soil
and growing handsome.