by poesia-verses March 4th 2024, 5:21 am
the guitar stands, packed into the past, -
and is sadly silent
like a monument in the heat.
will squeak a little
and the cat scribbles
about this guitar there are creaks with powder...
lined will hide in the chain mail of winter,
how we should or sing praises
there are drops outside the windows
and the hour has struck
about this legend
about this dream