Back home
14/10/11
14/10/11
Today, when I came back home the day of your death, I found my memories with dust on the shoulders ... My home is deep and voluble. It has corners in which, after such absence, I miss the taste like be home.
In the garden, the bushes have grown up with mysterious fragrances that I've never knew. The poplar planted at the bottom was slender, almost invisible, is now an adult. Its bark has wrinkles of wisdom that go up to heaven and are expressed in a continuous shaking up new leaves.
In the garden, the bushes have grown up with mysterious fragrances that I've never knew. The poplar planted at the bottom was slender, almost invisible, is now an adult. Its bark has wrinkles of wisdom that go up to heaven and are expressed in a continuous shaking up new leaves.
The chestnuts have been the last to recognize me. When I was impenetrable and hostile to their bowers bare and dry, high and blind. Now they proudly greeted me upon my return.
The library's books have a deep smell of autumn. All things are the most imbibed absence.
The smell of books is something deadly that goes straight to my face and the intricacies of the soul, 'cause it's a smell of oblivion, a buried memory.
The library's books have a deep smell of autumn. All things are the most imbibed absence.
The smell of books is something deadly that goes straight to my face and the intricacies of the soul, 'cause it's a smell of oblivion, a buried memory.
Clavel Rojo
