lunes, 28 de noviembre de 2011

My third poem

To touch the earth

my feet feel

the wet green ground

I smell the sound

to touch the earth.

My hands dig a hole

for my dying cyclamen.

My hands, the earth

the died flower ends.

When I open the green ground

thousands of brownish leaves

will follow

will cover

my dear coloured flower

to touch the earth

to smell the sound

of rebirthing all over again.

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