Time for prayer

Image source pixabay

It doesn't have a value, I don't care about the omens that devour my soul with flames of mirages, which draw your woman's perfume, which wanders in her entrails nocturnal flowers that hallucinate in the parchment of a story.

I claim love in the sands of time, as an act associated with the resignation of a void without will, I only insist on that aroma of a woman that materializes in words that puts you sufficiently safe in a paper heart.

I ask God to cover me with his rain, to get away from my ghosts, where you can flee, but I am convinced that it is impossible to stop loving you and be the guardian of your perfume, to serve you as an innocent creature.