The farewell route arrived,
bringing scents of dust.
Everyone looks at the corridor
and the aged wood.
They start the march drying the sweat,
no one stops
unless milk and honey flow
through the rocks of the road.
On the journey
the memory places
the rags at auction.
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...
