Unemployed from writing,
He no longer cares about pruning the branches of the parenthetical sentences that quarrel in the poem, nor the tongues of symbolism that the lines pamper, he is still busy with the wars of forgetting you, and whenever his heart was about to realize the conquest, it retreated towards you.
Here he is now suspended between defeat and conquest.
***
Like a bird he was, that heart which could not detach from its sorrows, for whenever he missed you, he appeared drowned in his old sorrow, like the hoopoe bird.
***
Like a child seized by joy, your eyes seize the heart, his heart that his mother used to describe as (the heart of the fish), now he tastes the sweetness of your voice dissolved in the ether, to remain alive in writing.
***
He stands at the windows of your vigilant eyes, carrying his colorful texts' peacocks, the bitter fields of life, exchanging all that for the honey of your glances dripping into the soul.