Like the tide

The soul takes off its foams
if the tide lowers
in the calm of each Moon.
The visible holes
show innocently
the shameless trails
that the oceans violence
deflowered connived with
the perfidious sand.
The indiscreet time astonishes
tearing the secrets
of the hidden tears
in the violet conchs.
Shames undress
the pains of life
and it doesn't matter if it shakes
or absence faints
now that the shelter of foam
is now uncovered.
When the tide goes up
the soul will paint its face
in blue, but dead.

© Antonia Blasa

Antonia Blasa writes from the United States of America, and took part with this poem of the first Heptagrama poetry contest.

Art and expression + Poetry