It was a lark, bichito, no nightingale Poem by Jorge Enrique Adoum

It is not easy to graft oneself onto you, my dear.
I realize that I was laughing and not coughing
what I said to you, and I should unthink the things
that I placed in your silence, and part from your lips
and leave you, half-alone, pulling out my hair.
It is the customary day, I know its censure.
One would say that the water used from crying would overflow
from eyeglasses, trunks, winecellars, all my fault,
that all of the wars that ended in ties
were galloping to eat, only because
I forgot to suffer last night, and was the sentinel,
or I would have returned, neglecting the land.

It is not easy to be happy; first, we are not allowed to
and, who knows, it will then be unfamiliar
or may require learning, but how, if exiled.

I put my love in that room of frowning,
in this sound solitude that I should put aside
since the two of us do not fit at the same time,
but it seems that I would have to bear my whole life,
to get in line for the world, to expect others
to pass by first to get married, to eat or to do business,
in order to begin to live without feeling guilty,
commuting me to your side of the sentence last.