I inhabit the mountain of mist,
firm earth, a ripe log,
waiting meekly by the clock
the summer rains,
the butterfly´s flight as a shot of grace.
I look at the dry leaf in the wind
like the song of a migratory bird.
I will cross the desert
to simulate distance at the other end.
The personal abode
will be a handful of earth
of any number.
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...
