The wind


The voice of the wind has the color of dreams
When I was a child I was joyful to life
The voice of the wind and the memories of days gone by
Of sun-scented afternoons
Of cicadas songs in the burnt fields
Of words whispered to the night
Of throbbing memories of love
Of questions posed to nothing
Like light dances lost in the mind.
Why ... don't you listen to the wind?
Why don't you listen to me anymore!

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Silvana Mellacina

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