Between a steaming spring, where the sun laughs and the rain bows, you walk barefoot, in glances and in bitter pity.

You drift in the wind, like a wandering thought, you touch a strange moment— but the flower sees you, with its peaceful face, from a forgotten sonnet they threaten.

I do not lose courage in you, nor the voice that trembles in the window, but time that carves destinies,

Cloths a nation in metaphor. And the flower, looking at you, whispers to you: "You are against my peace."

In the arms of the resort where the rain dances, where the sun's smile kisses your hair, you walk with it in thoughts that you touch—in open steps, among the shadows of time.

In pure neglect, in the romances of the wind, you touch moments that no one can touch. But the flower in the poem, she watches and stands, sees you from the eternal randomness of verse.

Courage is closer than you know, like a whisper on the edge of a glass. And time, so fragile, but concrete,

Wraps your heart in ribbons. The flower in the sonnet poet whispers: "You are my country."

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