You are like a woman
who loves herself more if she is far away.
Your village heart
has city fumes.
And between remisses,
scars< br/>of the children who leave
searching hard
for a future.
What would you not give for them to find it here...
You are a quiet January
and a March with a thousand crowds.
And they say that nothing ever changes in you,
but you have changed
from side to side.
The boulevard is too small for you.
And you scatter people
suddenly
where until yesterday you saw only a pasture.
You must have something
that those who are not from here love you.
It may be that you are almost outside the terror,
of a strange world
of death and deception
that has not yet touched you at all.
Although in your memory
the story hurts
of the girl who did not return home...
To be able to love you
I didn't need to leave you.
Yesterday I went out to walk you one more time
and I saw a thousand benches
and a thousand white walls,
and... I no longer know where you will go.
But it is so mine
your poetry
I don't want any more.
There are no more obstacles
Three Streams
so that you always feel my place.

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