From the ink of your writing
ή
the pen you use to sketch
your sleepless nights
From the tomb of your memory
that you reverently touch
From the flower you planted
in a secluded garden
From the rock of the sea
that you chose, the wave
to cool your deserts
I will have met you.
From "Your dolls had no soul"
photo epicanthus, https://pixabay.com


























