In memory

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 ha nothing more  to say .

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 ...