The set is sleeping
At the heart of the old flower
That afraid resists the
and the coming winter.
It breaks in my hands
Tired and dried
by the donation of its beauty.
Numbers in the table,
Like kids holding hands in a line,
Show me the direction
While tickling my brain
In this hide-and-seek game.
The pull and magic of the hidden trend
Make me a solo artist
Behind the curtain of an unapologetic stage.
The rays of the early day
And the sweet smell of the morning
Are the perfect sense to the adventure
I am starting alone.
The Luggage is full at the door
And the diary has white pages left.