There used to be days when my mind was a temple

in which a multitude of poems congregated,

and beyond my temple, beyond my frown,

they consecrated my silent vows.

Many ideas roamed around

between the pillars of clear white,

but now all that's left is ruins,

there's not a thought left to find.

All has been erased by the power of my grief,

all has been destroyed, by a singular belief:

you, my muse, won't come back to me.

Nothing hurts me more than this,

the prospect that I will never see

your face again, but in dreams.