A Romantic Story

Between brushes, between birds,
life unfolds.
In a place far from everyone's sight.
Among poems of the sea,
on solid ground.
Life,
that life,
that goes away,
in the heat,
of August.
In the summer,
in the sun's heat,
he has a life,
a secret life,
that no one
imagines.
The world,
between walls,
is the life of that man,
a failed,
rich man,
immaterial,
he has everything,
of everything,
and of nothing.
He asks for no more,
with his animals,
that's enough for him, with a walk,
down winding paths.
So much work to be nothing,
getting poorer and happier,
he consumes yesterday's wealth,
happy with the little road left to travel.
A romantic life of love and flowers,
where life is a pure dream,
among delicate poems,
a sublime life,
in misery.
In the end he goes,
the door,
closed,
and no one
felt it.
A failure,
a romantic life,
a dreamer,
now far from everyone,
and finally he flew, without suffering,
to a better place still.
And he never returned,
the sweet dream
of death.
A dead poet,
who wasn't even a poet,
nor lived reality.
And the walls,
closed,
and no one,
returned,
there.