The first morning

Slowly, I drew the curtain from time equipping our first morning. It made clearly and cold. Bringing the light of the distance. I thought of you. So near to me. Still coiled in a deep sleep. I looked at beating the sea. Without opening the window for fear it awakes. I listened to the slow rhythm of our first morning. Like the notes of a speaking piano with half words. Not to damage the divine one. Telling lazes of a soft languor as a caress. Going higher. That the time of this first morning does not beat. Carrying to the borders. The tenderness of a weakness. The passion of an intoxication. Running on the notes of time. That I hear. While looking at rising the white sky. From a first virgin and beautiful morning like the child. Whose first cry was offered to the wind. Hands contracted to retain dust of time. Who flees already in the lapse of memory. Goes and from comes from the sea dancing. Under my misted eyes of these moments. Who will not remain only moments. But will carry the throbbing memory. From a first morning. Where bathed in silence, I saw the sun rising. Illuminant, your face with the lips carmines. Recovering the pink of dyed tone. White of this color which you carried yesterday. When, both front the furnace bridge, we linked our prayers.