The Seventh Month
From the door I search
the blues from my youth
which were many.
The heat of august sails
over a straight horizon,
light offers shade to pine trees
no longer trampled by torridity.
As September expires,
I lift my eyes which have seen so much sky,
above torsos of fishermen, their straw hats,
espadrilles, even flying seagulls.
At the shore
the frothy sound of a playful sea delights,
keeps my toes cool,
the heart burning,
with nostalgia.
No comments:
Post a Comment