every bright future is a wind whisper,
a caress of the ray,
every touch in the palm is a getaway for flying words,
each word, like a *****, wears two white lines and one black,
a life spent in thought, not to withdraw in etilic sevraj, from time to time
raises the glass to taste the words with its mouth, cheers ... cheers ...
silence,
confessing, silence
silence,
forgiveness,
every forgiveness is a lucid grave,
a grave clear as water that watches the angels as they grow wings and fly,
they rise and rise to unclog the springs from the air, unearth the sunset
and embrace the light like a newborn at the mother's breast,
every death has a mother, every death has a father.