It is you the illusion of each day. You arrive like the dew to the corolla. Undermine the horizon with your absence. Eternally in flight like the wave. I said that you sang in the wind as pines and like the masts. Like them you are tall and taciturn. And suddenly saddened, like a trip. Welcoming as an old road. You populate echoes and nostalgic voices. I woke up and sometimes migrate and flee birds sleeping in your soul.
Posted on: Thu, 03 Apr 2014 20:49:08 +0000