where the horizon is almost white
and the sky faded,
drained into an empty rictus
this is where She comes from
with the train of her dress of dead leaves
sweet essences, putrid-juicy aromas
and wandering air threads in the empty sky
melancholy makes its bed
on the wet mat in front of the door
the fog combed its streams in the alley
and the leaves are preparing for emigration
the trees fall into lethargy
and with charcoal they makeup their sadness
water binds to the weeping past
and a smile weaves the sky from the ground