Poets can never get to die.

I know that poets never die
because their works remain in time
and the books immortalize them
in a memory of delicate line
that sometimes crosses eternity
where inspiration is fine.

The poets can abandon life,
but their poems remain there
in the soul of each town
where they rode on their pegasus
sometimes aimlessly up and down.

Poets live in the tender hearts
and from there they will never ever leave
and as the years go by, the firmness
will make them live.

Poets belonging to ancient times
endure in the new almanacs,
and it is a reality that is felt every day,
because poets never die
for they are like light from a perennial ray.

For that reason is that when they leave
of the earth in material form
their bodies depart, but what they were
they always will be, by the work of God.