sometimes it comes back to me
a world
stone shaped
heavy
in the pockets
and a world could be born,
a country
small, safe, no shouting
where to go in the afternoon
when the night refuses to arrive
and summer crosses the walls.
The time of the trees returns
from the earth
dead in the dark
The table is always set.
The burning candle.
strangers pass
and the door is closed.
Nobody will touch.
This small, perfect world, the stone
It's still in my coat pocket, still.
Great Posts And Articles By Great Authors
A country small
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espacioreal
A veces leo.
Great Posts And Articles By Great Authors
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