They say, that they have seen me through the streets, along the boulevards, through the cafés in the plaza kissing you.
They say, that we wished the stars that twinkle in broad daylight under the sun that unfolds the landscape unfolding filling it with light and colors.
They say, that I have walked alone around your house, calling you with the plaintive voice of the one who has been abandoned and that my tears sadden the stones of your garden that hurt my feet when trying to sneak through the window of your room that languishes in the shadows of those nights that await me incessantly.
They say, that sadness is killing me, that you left long ago, that I said goodbye to you one afternoon in May when the buds of the apamates broke in flower and fell to the ground to pick them up with my hands and make me the wedding dress with which you would betroth me before the altar.
They say, that I too went under the shelter of the loneliness of the one who is not fired.
They say, that languor in my grave waiting for you eternally beyond oblivion.
They say, and they say so much, but nobody says how much I still love you.
https://www.desdelaplaza.com/raiz/urbania/florecen-los-apamates-en-caracas/