I take up my pen
to tell you about
my inner words .
But its only
a fragile bird feather
tossed about by the winds
in a trouble state of mind
without reason and direction ...
This old refrain,singing
a love story ,
no longer having children...
Three tired chords on a guitar
drawning in an inspired wave
in the sea of melancholy ...
My pen has nothing more to say .
She is object of may .
The poet died in the beginning
of the harvest season ,
leaving behind ,poor testament ,
a few sonnets mummified in time ...
My widow will give birth
to a mischievous black moon ...
Would that be the end of the comedy ?
Or will only these illusory curves
remain in the wizzard\'s book ?
My seasonal feelings
addressed to dead lives ,
before falling asleep ,
somewhere on the winter road.
In memory ...