I lost my poetry
inside a prose,
among dialogues
and characters,
among chapters
and conflicts.

I looked for those rhymes,
worn as earrings,
by hundred of verses,
I looked for hidden meanings
and metaphors that live,
and all I could find,
was a sudden end,
for the novel of time.

I never thought
that I will lose,
the letters, sent to me,
the paths, drawn
for my romantic walks.

I'm an oldman,
that seeks traces of the past,
I'm the nubs of a forest.