Poetic people are like the wind,
They never stop travelling,
They are driven away from landscapes to landscapes,
From shores to images.
They enjoy all what they touch,
They desire, they caress, and they sigh,
But never, never, they can stop.
Probably, there is too much to see, too much to loose.
When questions gain control over emotions,
When emotions, carefully hidden in the heart are able to look at the mirror of the surface,
and found little time to spring up in sparkling fragments,
to flee and breathe the air of liberty, adding growing wings at your spirit.
Joy, kindness, bliss, tenderness, benevolence and love make you stagger,
surrounding your consciousness by a bubble of emotions.
I'm split between two worthless swaying,
Life is so ephemeral...
Now, feelings have flied away in deep waters.
But, I'm still here with you with only one question:
Have we still had the right to believe in love stories?