Pure green

Escaped from the lab coat,

Devoid of ask analytic tools,

I dive into the garden

And let geometries of leaves

And flying perfumes surprise me.

They narrate a story

Written only for me

That will take me away

For the most precious moment of the day.

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Tired hands

Refill these hands

That worked hard and bled today

To add beauty and respect

To old clothes.

Hands not smooth and not shy

That travel quick through the stitches

And join the borders of a hot Sunday.

Give them water, a shake, and a rest

In your lap

Until fresh again.

Breathing out

I pushed myself

And the sofa is far away.

The green around gives a new pace

To my breathing and expectations

For this life

That’s never enough.

Lose control, embrace your music,

Restart fresh each time.

Holiday practice

Jingle jingle in my head

That ‘ you should’ I push away

With mails and documents

That only drain.

Holidays are often theoretical

And the duties hang on my arm.

More practice is needed.

Joy Friday

Wine is in my hands
On a Friday with rain
And my heart jumps of joy.
Love and company,
Foods and future,
Plans and relaxation,
Joy is when the opposites meet.

Holiday lapse

On the sunny grass,
I refuse to count the minutes
And abandon myself into the light
And into this book with potential.
In a cone of rays,
Life seems logical
And nature an expected component,
Fast from the arrogant asphalt
Of home.

Story show

My story is apparent
On the skin of my willing hands
And on the edges of my smiling mouth.
I have written thousands of sentences,
Yet none is enough
Or necessary.