How far the light is?

Tonight,
on my way back to Paris,
I saw her bird flying outside the window:
too perfect to invade the moon
and conquer the stars;
passing those thrifts
while soaring over the Everest.

This euphoria wasn't a mystique
until the snake of verisimilitude
had bitten the beautiful dream of mine -
on the altitude of reality,
I measured the obtrusiveness of truth.

True love is not about
clever tricks or thick magic,
it just grows on interest.

So, I want to share
that faith has grown in her heart once again
because she has found the fruit of life
in the beauty of death;
soon the spring would be in her bird's palm
and the poet dead inside her
could flourish listening to the songs.
The night is going to end in her life,
but the question is how far the light is?

And if the omniscience
doesn't consider her only wish in his lists;
her grief will burn out the sun this time.

(for andrea)