rummaging in an old wardrobe. In the midst of sheets, cards and folders, greeting old days, letters of all kinds, and objects of ancient times, I found a book: it was poetry, handwritten in ink, perhaps on other worlds, they were quite simple, anonymous , written by who knows whom and who knows why. I opened it and sat down to read, time has passed, without being consumed and I feel I'm lost ... between verses and feelings hidden in those pages, between words and emotions stored carefully with order and love.
I have set aside one, I tore the paper, I've fit in your pocket, and today I open it, I sit with a cup of tea in hand, the hot, summer rain washes out the round leave a fresh smell in the air and land ....
0 comments:
Post a Comment