the shadow shape

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