Under that white skirt and
light smirk...

This thirst reminds me
of winter...

And then she sighs
and says in a shaking voice...

This isn't a painting.
Don't prance around with...

I'm not a poet,
I'm not a melody...

The sky is clear, and on the sidewalk,
old men are playing backgammon...

There, death.
We give up. You win...

Where you are, it's probably dark
and the screams of others are the...

An old man making a speech,
a sad crowd standing up and clapping...

In August, the sky is pure
like writing freedom on a sheet...

From lung to mouth
to the air. I try to write your...

There's something about your air
that makes my soul cling to you...