Incarnations

I am the traveller who
Has watched melancholy abandoned
By distant clouds

I am the master of silence
Rereading mediocre books
To dig the hidden diamonds

I am the lost minstrel
Who wore roses in his hair
Who untouched every distance

I am the floating memory
Who teaches the sun to moan
But forget every distance

I am the copy without original
And what is not necessary to say
I will say it without regret

I am the stranger without surrender
Who will arrive with his hands
Full of left-behind hours

I am the martyr without shelter
Who left all the untouched mysteries
Without wounds of reason to protect