And the wind blows, runs, limps, touches the edges to throw himself forward,
overcomes obstacles, displays security
and envelops you in its embrace,
makes you feel protected and then slip away.
's the one that is made out of nothing,
less consistent color of the rainbow,
but it can melt,
lighter and more fragile wings of a butterfly.
that can break.
It is an image faded,
to be there at the dawn of a dream,
where the night meets the day
floor and leans on the dreams you've never done
stroking what you thought of having,
extending the edges of your mouth,
into a smile that you were not accustomed to.
But this wind is never satisfied,
never remains stationary,
chases gli spazi vuoti nella sua folle corsa ,
lui capace di infilarsi tra la tua schiena e il muro,
passando lieve e facendotene sentire la distanza,
è lui che ti lega i polsi al letto
e hai quasi la sensazione di sentirlo nella tua presa.
E al primo ostacolo pesante evita di essere schiacciato,
scivolando nel suo percorso,
girando il magnete della bussola,
leaving your shoulders bare,
without the warmth of your chest warm,
your lips dry to the taste of cheap coffee,
tasteless,
without essence.
And the wall that was strong
and had melted to its passage,
as fragile bricks Sandstone
dissolved by water and wind-swept,
Reappears heavy
spread all over your body,
protecting you.
a stone shell.
say blissful ignorance,
not having ever tried,
they may be right.
And reach out your hands to touch it again and he blows you and then come to continue his journey on other beaches, licking different branches
and the few times coming back again,
always does it without stopping,
managed to brush those petals
that are disappearing from your body ,
leaving only the thorns.
has no goal, but does not stop,
ready to lick the barrier dividing into several parts,
then meet once avoided.
And your spines sting nothing,
the anything that moves corrend or
blowing
puffing in his storm
touch the heart.
Why this wind has the heart
and for once he turns walking backwards
and blow the dust in the sandstone has in the hands
and who knows you,
can not sweep it away,
not want
and while playing with his fingers, crying, with your outline,
is already far away.
