The Scot who stole my soul

Is it your adventurous self?

Is it your generous words?

I cannot say what I like most.


It is your fruity voice

With those vowels in your speech.

It is your tone, fetchingly naïve.


It is your slender figure

And the turquoise butterflies in your eyes,

But also that you are closer to the sky.


Your novel, the kisses, your so comforting presence,

The kitchen, your laughs, the long awaited train;

Those promises will join our picture in a frame.


It is you, unforgettable vision,

All the details and the whole,

You, the Scot who stole my soul.


Poem by Edgar Rodríguez Sánchez

EssayEmma SearleComment