By Oscar Rosales
Who will take these leaves
in their hands,
read the lines and tell
stories about their past lives.
About some distant planet,
distant eyes, almost vanished dreams,
a hand on your cheek, warm, gentle...
Who will be the last one in pronounce
a verse to the wind.
Who, while holding a sweet image in
the memory, will scatter these leaves of bronze.
Will be there some eyes watching how they
slowly enter to the snow, sleeping,
dreaming about the future hands and the
arms that gently will give the life with an embrace.
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