amanecer

What a wonderful muse
must have come down to kiss you
and what tortuous delight
must have been felt upon leaving you.

You gave yourself to set it to music
with violins of ambrosia
and when it came time to keep it
you saw your hands empty.

Poor foolish painter,
palette in hand, dawn-colored ink,
breaking shadows, inventing the color
that only you could, only you believed to see.

So your memory flew
even further than your years.
A story is always news
of kisses and disappointments.

Since you found the muse
that led you to madness,
your unfinished line sings
the same unhealable straight line.