odyssey

the manuscripts resting
with the age of dust
your face a worried one
melting the light while sleeping
would comfort the dreams of time
masks and mirrors were hidden
in eternal caves where your hands
sought the treasures dreamed
everything seems to pass
in a ritual manner
the sky at night is your
perfect resemblance when
you brought the candels
where are the mountains?
where the rivers?
only an illusion
of the open window
of the open heart.