I couldn't lie to you, I could mantain the illusion and let the third be the last, but then you wouldn't have known the truth.
This is the epilogue of the whispering, happy ends are for suckers that con men put in heart formed box of chocolates to perpetuate the illusion of Valentine’s Day and that “forever after” end of the princess and the frog, when in reality she married a money loaded schmuck and the frog didn’t got kissed and we never will know if a prince was there waiting that kiss on the frog.
Life sometimes are what she is, cruel and sadistic, with hard long nails and steel fingers to go inside your chest and grab your heart and yank it out feeling its final beats with the satisfaction of a “I told you so”
We loved…and we lost.

Whisper's Epilogue


All one hundred and fifteen feet of her
the old girl is a Benetti Classic of steel
with a pouting bow aiming to the skies
with millions of stars waiting for her kiss;
anyone feeling a want for a promenade…
decks of well scrubbed polished teak,
cushions over cushions to where sprawl
if you fancy a paneled salon in mahogany.

The rich Afghan carpets knitted by hand
will soften every step of anyone’s walk,
and the crystal tumblers in their holders
are there ready to be filled with your liquor,
would be it an Irish Jameson cream whiskey
or from Jamaica a Captain Morgan’s Rum
making the ice dices noisily to dance as you
look around at the emptiness of the room.

The morning after came as always it does
after a night of tender discoveries, too soon,
the road astern was calling her to go away
the sinking ship made of feelings to abandon
because the lovers didn’t owned tomorrow
and yesterday was for them already gone,
as eyes drowned in tears, goodbye converted
in an unspeakable insulting four letters word.

The gravel of the road sung with protest as
the wheels rolled away from the empty dock
and the arms of the old oak tree felt down
no wishing another next Spring to welcome
as there are not enough left water to quench
the thirst to be suck by its unwilling roots.
Will she remember? oh yes! its been branded
by a white hot passion in the flesh of both.

All the technical trimming up top awaits
to sail, once you decided on the bridge
where to go, if you have a strong idea, or,
if to fall at the end of the world you wish;
this old girl of a boat will take you there
over any storm, because she is your ship,
but sorry mate, like the Flying Dutchman,
you will be sailing alone forever, like him.