The dance of the stems
the evening breeze
color purple cheeks and eyes
he stops to give way to tears
It crumbles the memory of a spell
to the rhythm of the heart broken
pleading silence and asks for forgiveness
if in the memory there are many problems
that become soap bubbles or small precious things.
Each story is lost in oscillating distracted
between touches and strokes
with fatigue again takes unfair demands
and finally try the din of the senses
in feeding ever hidden joys
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