Esto No Es Una Elegía

You remind me of the meadow of dreamers,
the wall that separates us from the sea, if it's nighttime.
You remind me, sitting,
certain feelings
that one never knows what they bring on their wings:
if alive or dead.

I take off my face and fold it
over my pants.
If I'm not to say your name,
if it hides as a stranger
I don't want expression.
My eyes usually
have as if imprinted
their cheerful dreams.

You remind me of the streets of Old Havana,
the Cathedral submerged in its sea of tiles.
You remind me of things, I don't know, the windows
where the night singers sang
love to Havana.

This is not an elegy
nor a romance, nor a verse:
more like a thanksgiving,
to give my desires
reason for a kiss,
a modest crown
found at dawn.

You remind me of the world of a teenager,
a half-scared child looking at people,
an interrogated angel,
haunted dream,
the curse, the blasphemy of a continent
and a bit of death.