Wind

36 10 3
                                    

Writing on white papers,
waiting to be advised
When my body deceased?
wisdom of infinite stairs

Blow my soul back to home,
or blow me wind, a true smile

They say she just writes,
these are words never read.
And inside, only judgments
mind fascinated to lose

Blow my soul back to home,
or blow me wind, a true smile

Counting broken versesDonde viven las historias. Descúbrelo ahora