Farmers look up at the sky
waiting for their harvest checks.
The trees are their children
like a circle full of crowds.
Citizens who tie a piece of anguish in their heads
and prick the breast of the sky back to the village.
YOU ARE READING
When I close my door
PoetryI dedicate this work to all the friends who are left in the heart. To all those who love me. In When I close my door, a social interest and a renunciation for the sake of communication is explicit, the subject destroys his exterior, recomposes himse...
