The wind blows through the palm trees
like someone passing by without a sound,
but leaves the trace of its presence
in the song of the birds.

The sun is already low,
and the earth, warm, breathes slowly.
Each step is a reminder
that time is a road that doesn't turn back.

Life is made of small gestures:
the worker’s embrace,
the child's smile,
the gaze of the woman who makes a home a...

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She was poetry, a dance in the air
Moving lightly, like a verse floating there
Hair in the wind, unpretentious lines
Her smile illuminated cloudy times
He, a simple man, lived raw prose each day
With calloused hands, unaware of the way
Life in bold letters, beauty lost in the grind
Chapters predictable, meaning hard to find
At the craft fair, a sun shining bright
He watched from afar, not...

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