Dead people walking east

Whenever you write me a poem on the pages of extended life, I exit from one world to enter another. Thus I plant my days in every world, trees of metaphor and palm trees of images, perhaps there is a traveler tired, seeking shade in my gardens and enjoying his soul from a glimpse of my orchards. I am the embroidered prophetic poem, woven with my love, and the seekers, their explanations, they asked for conquests to you with longing and your love in its reality is the conquest. Jacob weeps in my eyes, and my patience in the way to you is Noah.