I would like to tell you sweetly now
that my hand is a friend and the desire is aslept,
that the thread of my voice just touches you.
I would like to tell you that I love you slwoly
with a small love, made of light of rain,
blue smiles, kisses on the forehead,
of strokes without touching, of sincere fondness.
I would like to tell you that my hearts hurts
as a poem written in the water,
taken as a fallen leaf in the stream.
And you know it is true, sincere, what I say.
-Oh, heart of rose, my heart of rose-
and I love you always, even death.
(From "Poems for Clara" by Luis Andrés)