poet of the evening is the night of all. When the sun was low
colors of dreams and the clouds are the lines drawn by the hand of an artist I recognize.
the evening of the poet's evening of sweet silence. A soul that rests in itself.
The light wind brings a peace impossible, and the wakes of international flights leave written illegible.
In the countryside, small steps running on wooden floors echoed in an echo of gay love empty houses.
the evening of the poet is the evening of the color of wheat.
A glass of red wine, half full, is sitting on the kitchen table.
the evening of the poet, I wait for you alone.
look ugly sitting in my comfortable chair and watch the world change in his time of peace.
In a small sip of red wine waiting for you, but it's as if you were sitting on my lap, and smiling at me kindly, I repeat it once again in the evening as you like, in that perfect moment of vague feelings.
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