Heaven

Love is blind and hope is innocent.

The heart doesn't know where it doesn't want to know.

The black of a word that turns blood-red.

The key that shatters like a mirror.

The icy breath of a pretty little flower.

Those rose thorns that sting your eyes.

It's obvious, but they make it rain

And in the heart, everything becomes stormy.

The muse, inspiration, is not an idol.

When the heart writes and the words go wild.

We don't know why we write these words.

But we do know who tears them to shreds.

Érato or Béatrice, I meditate in silence.

Uncertainty for me, indifference for her.

I'll go to hell with her mockery.

But I'll pray to God for her, for heaven.