The morning wind
it sounded its trumpet at me
it pulled me out of bed
calling me from its hole
that I found in the window
when I lived in The outskirts
there was a forest wherever I wanted and
that was where I had my house
He accompanied me on my marches
when no one else went
and he The wind made signs and turns with the branches
and leaves
and it was a tireless company
touching here and here
checking everywhere
where it could sneak in
br/>on my valley expedition
returning from the sawdust
stirring up the leaves and
squeaking the wood
I remember it and I know it pulling
my love's hair
knocking down something and running away
on the run
joking with the hats
and pushing the gate at me
which we blocked because
the wind wouldn't open it.
The one who danced away
stumbling and stumbling
between trunks and stumps
turning and turning
that type of subject
who disconnects the light and just
when you fear something is the one that
is the one that smiling
blows out your candle.
One day we moved house and
we came to the city
the move brought furniture
and us with suitcases.
In the little house in the forest
we couldn't stay
they kicked us out, thank you very much
and see you soon, come back, come back
Under the pine tree the little house
What would be possible to see
if the treetops
were tilted just
it has about three dozen
months without giving a sign
I no longer know open their windows
nor did their chimney make smoke
perhaps the wind will have whistled
perhaps they sat down to wait
before forgetting me forever
and continue their pirouettes
I remember him and I hear him watering
the junk in the workshop
carrying leaves and raising
dust devils
and I hear the pine trees sway
when they hear the song
br/>who murmurs while combing
the slope.
The one that blows in the afternoons
and is the one that overturned the tablecloth
spilling in an instant
lemonade and napkins
That type and no other is
who has dedicated himself to doing
all kinds of tricks
maneuvers and tricks.
The one who danced away
stumbling and stumbling
between trunks and stumps
turning and turning
that type of subject
who disconnects the light
and just when you fear something
it is the one that
is the one that pushes you and slams
the door.

SUBMIT CORRECTIONS