Our home is alive with the voices.
I’m writing down the words on the terrace.
A child is walking through the corridor.
"Someone is writing on... (It passed away)."
It's about me. In the eyes of a child
I am someone. And I am a writer.
Sometimes the poet does not live with people.
Wealth passes by
the way without words.
The entire terrace is all
not written.
Jun 23, 2021
Jun 23, 2021 at 8:39 AM UTC
Our home is alive with the voices.
I’m writing down the words on the terrace.
A child is walking through the corridor.
"Someone is writing on... (It passed away)."
It's about me. In the eyes of a child
I am someone. And I am a writer.
Sometimes the poet does not live with people.
Wealth passes by
the way without words.
The entire terrace is all
not written.
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