Love is anterior to life
Or is it just the plume
The hummingbird’s regard
In a lonely pilgrimage?
Prayer are my paralyzing footsteps
Of this obscure fogged air
Perhaps there is no enchanted prize
At the end of the weary way
If there are limits to our dream
Then maybe it’s the world
Not our fault, just a symptom
Of the decay of the times
If love is just a supreme moment
In a ruddy effort to survive
Than what new value has the soul?
That finds goodwill, posterior to death.