In a state of dormancy my spirit lies within me awaiting an awakening like perennial flowers flourishing in spring but in winter withering. Of love I am forsaken. A beautiful Bruja with long gray hair once kissed me and told me that love would heal my afflictions. In violent storms of anguish the extremes are unforgiving; I am an insomniac or constantly sleeping. In darkness I awake weeping with tears streaming, reaching for the comforting caresses of affection. Closely listen for the true sentiments of my heart through my inflections. If the anguish of dormancy is my portion then I pray for a timely oasis of revitalization. A Bruja told me that undying love would find me, and I took heed to her wisdom. In the interim there is suffering. The dormancy of my soul is parched and cold. It is the purgatory of me that my eyes cannot hide. There is no vagueness in my narrative — the rhetoric of the afflicted does not lie. A Bruja collected the tears of my cries before she prophesied.