One at a time, I stared at the stars
and thought they were the same:
they glim and then bloom
in a gloomy warm room.
I was in love with a girl named Maria;
her face was shaped like a heart,
warm and homey;
or cozy I must say —
like you are in a seaside,
waves running in the background
and your left hand holding a cigar
while the other resting a tea
one evening
when the stars glim and then bloom
in a gloomy warm room.
Before Maria was a Maria,
and before that Maria
was another Maria;
and like a film,
each frame was different
but coordinated
like her eyes have the same depth
of other Marias of the past,
but their hands differ
in temperatures in touch,
one colder and shivering,
the other sweaty and warm
like when I held Maria’s hand
one evening
when the stars glim and then bloom
in a gloomy warm room.
Their names may be the same,
but their heartbeats do not rhyme:
their smiles also differ,
one wider, one thinner,
one happier;
but they share one thing,
I stole all the smiles
one evening
and I ran to the seaside,
where the waves run in the background
and throw them away,
in the middle of the night
when the stars glim and then bloom
in a gloomy warm room.
And years passed by,
night by night,
I still call all the stars Maria,
even when one is brighter,
one warmer,
and the other fainter —
because like the previous women I fell in love with,
I still find the the same smile from the first Maria
even though they shine the same
and smile the same
but still fail to find the one;
and up till now I keep on searching for the sun
in the middle of the night
when the stars glim and then bloom
in a gloomy warm room.
Her smile is on everyone’s face, but everyone is not her.
