<center>https://phantom-elmundo.unidadeditorial.es/0624b71df45c978b38bb05b13cbe9425/resize/473/f/webp/assets/multimedia/imagenes/2023/09/12/16945238335092.jpg
[Source](https://www.elmundo.es/vida-sana/familia-y-co/2023/09/12/65006142fc6c83715c8b456f.html)</center>

&nbsp;

What can I tell you  
that my eyes don't tell you  
that scatter embers of desire  
on the contours of your skin?  
In their light I lose myself,  
My hands, daring  
run along its paths,  
silently draw  
the secrets of the moment,  
explore every curve,  
every hidden heartbeat,  
and in their touch I find  
the song of a dream.
What can I tell you  
that I don't feel her skin?  
If every touch is a poem,  
a lit verse  
that awakens stars  
in the infinite night  
where time stands still  
and the world dissolves.
What can I tell her  
That I do not breathe your essence,  
that my verses do not yearn for  
the flames of her existence?  
I can only be silent,  
look, and let myself be carried away,  
for in the fire of her being  
all words are already superfluous.