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Grass concert

The young grass is stinging my feet
That enjoy the spontaneous ground
Like small children with no doubts.
They move with the notes
Of crickets and beetles,
Of dark butterflies with big eyes,
And make a personal rhythm
I can only feel.

Lake Sunday

The crowd surrounds me
and the water splashed while I lay
Dried in the sun of a lazy Sunday.
The last glimpse of summer
condenses in drops on my skin
while the green landscape lingers.

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