60

The hour of beauty
I was seated reading a book about war horses
and said my skin
as a river feeding swords.

Snow flowers were paiting
the air
even though the spring.

Justice, loyalty, freedom,
you never wrote me a letter.
Eternity, how deep you've wasted my soul.

[I'm a tree, I'm just a purple tree].

When the sixty minutes end
my voice was the mirror
singing me the song
of nothing.