I'm tired of love, I'm sick of poetry and poetry, but money makes me happy, I used to ask myself often; if the poem is tangible, what would he be like? Sun? Month? Star? Mountain?
Sea? Years ago I found a poem radiating the mancar from your eyes, come into my body. As you suspect in the end I know poetry never has a look. He thinks that pooled, overflowing on the fingers of memories. Memories named you.
Thank for visit.