Al Qabri Ramos & The Walkabouts

 

The priestess's star, the Empress and King Solomon

It's painful to miss him.

A little pain that goes

thickening with age,

It's a pain only mine

Of not having had the courage

to fight, win or defeat

and she comes,

this one, shout flags

with your name

and with your smell,

remember me, the treacherous

of the story of who you are,

As if it were possible to live with you

and forget the one you love,

all cracks

all the pains and bitterness,

all the laughter and laughter,

All the tenderness and humor

all your love,

She cunning full of glory

For robbing you of me

remembering the trial

King Solomon,

that I want you well and happy,

Don't be mine, my love

then, the memory is perpetuated

until the future of the next life,

From inside in my heart,

You never got out,

Sweet memory of staying whole

Unique, unique, unique and not medium

In the drunkenness of having been in me

last, first, last, and

and so definitive

like Kentuckies cigarette packs

than who killed us from

so much spitting

without filters or protection,

from wanting to go against the grain,

wanting to be an adult running,

but who fed us,

the soul growing

because we were so human.

And now, already old and worn,

serene and again chaste,

tired and why not say it,

resistant iconoclast,

I look at the walls around me

I feel that there is a priestess

in me who guesses that time

is running out and

that I still have so much,

so much of you inside

that the cry of having

lost sight of you is not exhausted,

but the star that you

were in me is still alive,

full of loose ends in flames of passion

all woven by the consolation

of looking at your face of fire

and in this certainty of God,

in this cry of urgency

you made yourself eternal

and without your physical return,

and my sad patience you remained

a star guiding my steps

to guide me the longing to scream

inside that you were and

became a huge incandescent giant,

that I lost you by a hair's breadth but

I also hear you sing to me

in a whisper

that the angels veil the moon from me

(my hand no longer reaches yours)

but you are, you are in me.

The empress getting lost,

the star breaking, running,

the rose and the thorn,

the child in the womb of the priestess

who, without glory,

will leave but it is only

when the time comes t

hat it will end.

Until then, no. Not you.

You will remain in the annals of history.

And you continue to be,

that you were and are my dear, scientist,

my love, poet, musician, commit

and being obvious and painful,

and extremely sad to feel that

I cannot touch you or see that

I cannot hug or speak to you and

that I am always postponing this pain

that cannot be overcome,

that never tires of moving me,

of having awakened the hope

of vibrating in faith

just like when I was a child,

The priestess that I am keeps the star,

the only necessary baggage,

for any urgent trip that has to be made,

further ahead to say goodbye to you

is always to die a little and so it has been,

until I shut up,

this is already the trump card in my hand

that I keep and I give Charon the finalization

of going to the waters that are mine

where I have lost my way, that I may find thee.