the feather touched the roof of the buggy,
I looked him in his eyes.
The heart was pine, not even knowing
the cause of pain.
Evening without wind,
mantled of sadness
under the arch of the cloudy sky,
the Bois de Boulogne seemed
traced in China ink in ancient album.
Smell of gasoline and lilacs
an stillness quiet.
Again he touched my knees
with the hand that hardly not trembled.
10 JANUARY 2012
24 JANUARY 2012