To Ludwig van Beethoven

For L. Beethoven


I hand over my body to your silence waters,
the arches of your hovering music ,
where the land voices, in his pasture
of clouds, they gleam like tears.
I do not feel more injured not even shocks.
My blood gushes slowly the violins.
And a light crucifies me on air
of rain, for your roses cut.

These roses that alter our day,
and they open in the afternoon the fingers plea
they are freed, birds, of clay.

touching, with his tortured form,
on the surface of blue thing contained and uncurbed
in this adage from stone and moonlight.