the sun also cries

it is felt, but not seen.

it is felt, but it doesn't exist.

it is felt, and it still throbs.

it is felt, but it has no name

and if it has one, it is no longer named

because what isn't seen isn't named.

it dies, but it is still alive.

it dies, but it still trusts.

it dies and hasn't said goodbye.

and if it has, only god will know.

so a flower withers, before being born,

so the river feels the mountain range pass by, which it never touches, which it perhaps never sees, but there it is deep inside it

like a native impulse, like an embodied trace, like an active principle and a gift of the soul

and it doesn't call it, doesn't beg for its presence, because it feels it and that is enough.

and when it chases it, seduces it and finds it, but it doesn't belong to it

and it returns to its ancient cave, like a fish in the middle of a storm, swallowed by a whirlpool from another era that rises from the darkness to say goodbye once more.

how absurd misery is, it doesn't understand that it carries its own errand, the claws of a higher rage and the tears of the new sun.

and so the bottom of the sea lives, in its unfading immensity,

in the darkness where the great blaze isn't seen, but its warmth is felt.

it is felt, and even so it doesn't live.

it is felt and even so it lives again.

because the sun also cries and it was to him, that it came to say goodbye.