Scent of grass

Saturday, March 5, 2016

Clamor of voices.
Elastic tears advance through the valley.
The landscape.
The solitude.
A cloud of dreams dies in the afternoon.
The voice rolls
and a drunk grimace remains unmoving in the sky.
Bitter lights.
Cold fires.
Rural nostalgias kiss the time.
And you,
A dot of oil mixed with water,
Sleep in the memory of a poet.