With the notes of the blues come a sense of incompleteness
that you can see in a garden
in all the leaves
in a summer sunset
nothing but the words of lovers.

The poet never dies,
the poem never finishes,
the brown pit
needs only your five fingers.
It’s funny and it’s true that lovers have no religion,
creation has no slavery
and the fundamentals of existence prevails within the very entities of virgin works.

This world
a cage and a weeping piano player.
The horizon breaks and you can always share a sense of esoterica with your love…
Your isolated love,
your stolen love…
This world always cries with the brave and gives movements to impalpable lunatics.

The home is down…
The gypsy mind, the old body now retires on benches…
Where they can see the deconstruction of nothingness and the celebration of blissful migration.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Olga Merrill.