Un Poeta Ha Muerto

Y el poeta ha muerto, en el silencio de tus ojos, tu mirada tierna que deja sin palabras la voz de un poeta que no duerme por pensar en esa mirada que alguna vez le robó sus versos de amor.
El poeta suspira con anhelo, con gran deseo de sentir los labios de la presencia que marcó su gran y frágil corazón.
Un corazón que ya no siente, que perdió su esencia de amar con gran pasión.
El poeta ha muerto, ya no se escucha palabra alguna que salga de su boca, producida por la inspiración que hacía explorar su corazón y delirar su mente por el rumbo de la imaginación.
Ahora habla sólo su pobre corazón, un latido leve cada vez más frágil que el anterior.
Cierra los ojos, sólo así podrás escucharlo.
Cierra los ojos... y escucha..., los vidrios rotos de un corazón poeta que supo lo que era amar pero jamás supo lo que era ser amado.
El poeta ha muerto, como el fénix que una vez resplandeció en llamas y se volvió cenizas. De las cenizas renace.
Renace un poeta, la metamorfosis de sus versos es notable.
Escribe con una pluma de cuervo.
Su tinta, inocentes pecados manchados con sangre.
Un poeta enamorado ha muerto, ha muerto un sentimiento, una inspiración.
Pero un poeta siempre será poeta.
La gloria del gran poeta es nunca quedarse sin tinta, si llora de felicidad escribe con sus lágrimas.
Y si sufre, exprime su herida y escribe con su sangre.
Convirtiendo su dolor, en una hermosa y magistral poesía.
-* Jhonatan Jêss *-

-Traslation:

And the poet has died, in the silence of your eyes, your tender look that leaves without words the voice of a poet who does not sleep for thinking about this look that at some time it stole his verses of love from him.
The poet sighs with longing, with great desire to feel the lips of the presence that marked his great and fragile heart.
A heart that already he does not feel, that it lost his essence of loving with great passion.
The poet has died, already there is not listened any word that goes out of his mouth produced by the inspiration that was making explore his heart and rave his mind for the course of the imagination.
Now it speaks only his poor heart, a beating weighs anchor increasingly fragile that the previous one.
It closes the eyes, only this way you will be able to listen to it.
It closes the eyes ... and listen..., the broken glasses of a heart poet who knew what was to never love but But he never knew what was to be dear.
The poet has died, as the phoenix that once shone in flames and one turned ashes. Of the ashes he is reborn.
A poet is reborn, the metamorphosis of his verses is notable.
He writes with a pen of raven.
His ink, innocent sins stained with blood.
A poet in love has died, a feeling, an inspiration has died.
But a poet always will be a poet.
The glory of the great poet is never to remain without ink, if he cries of happiness writes with his tears.
And if he suffers, he squeezes his wound and writes with his blood.
Turning his pain, in a beautiful and magisterial poetry.