The night turns dark to sigh
crying.
throats to mute
the broken sobbing, the stars pale
the brightness of your eyelids
and even wax it melts pristine
grief.
rhythm of her sadness
only sing a melody gipsy
fatal
that fits
mantle after his sentence
echoes in the air interlaced.
Grief
reaches its zenith on the night of Holy Thursday,
between anxiety and passion
-chained-
is pain and there is mourning for the tragic traffic
corners of the Virgin
more crying, more beautiful
, more tears.
seems that there is no room
in that face-studded
such bitter tears
making
bitter sea for a glimpse of joy ...
and with her, however,
candor manifested as one afternoon in May, lost in her eyes
where it is sought,
eyes to those who mourn, sigh
lip, caresses
not
palpated and a brief enthusiasm for seeing the Valley
in that green leafy sanctuary. For being so
his sentence
and crying although apex
cries so beautifully and how beautiful she is crying!
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