Afternoon sun peeking out humbly intelligent
bones and warms my icy indifference;
summer they expect stiff
surviving the winter executioner that cling to me grief.
inert Pause my day, as my eyes slowly
look inside and open my look without seeing,
wonder that landscape tour without cold
and my ears hear what I write ...
you with me and my memories, my day before yesterday,
tonite and in two days.
're my poetry and I intend in my verses
in the evenings, mornings, and because not
in August afternoons unfair.
Hands soft light that mirror
any role in what I think.
Any month is good for love.
MarisaLy rights reserved 15/08/1906
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