The Art of Living with Stories

The table lay bare without my thoughts,

The sleeveless cover of the pen,

The unstable cover of paper thriftily vibrating.

The clouds have gathered low to bend humanity.

Looking into the storm's eyes,

I find innocence underneath, so fragile beings .

Urban People no more enjoy the refreshings of Nature, pray to preserve the rural culture .

The clouds burst with the sky above golden .

The dawny air, the ever-lasting fragrance of the 

Gusting winds, bending trees, drilling soils .

The sun blinks as a lemon orange flavouring,

Thunders lament the bending trees,

The whirpool slip through my room.

Keeping the artificial air at bay, as you say .

Lull me into a luxurious sleep, 

With raining down me and the houseplants smiling 

For the book I completed met with a tragic end .

With the next sparkle of rays of the calm and full night sky, stars embroidering my indeterminate self, I start with another distanced theory !