The path of the fairies
has waned in his fist dreams
and vanished into the trees dumb.
Walking with head upside down and the heart into stomach, between the fingers
open wings of those who still has not given up.
If I feel a lump in my throat because you’re thinking about me,
as a still image, the fresh memory of flights?
My fantasy happiest is to write your dreams.
and let them gush out of the old wounds, when I was a child,
along with the song that now accompanies my every step, of being more
Quick and cunning of your sadness and blow it away from your eyes.