Sadness, my indefinitely maid,
found in a small drawer of the old wooden chest ,
all my gray, clear and vague dreams ,
like white patches, good only
to be put on the wounds ,
blue, indigo and violet wounds of our souls,
long-lost in foreign, forgotten wars...
"Do not touch !" - I cried out with poisoned fear -
"otherwise, translucent canvas ,
that barely covers them,
will tear into a million pieces, leaving them
to take flight to the stars inside us !"
A careless smiling absence ,
and her hands untied the knots
that held them captive, winged words...
Since then, the peace of my heart
dies every night, to be reborn
again and again, painfully alive ,
in my all day words...
