The wind blows, it pushes down the valley
to a white confused
fading in the air of a sky
late summer
as scattered white clouds,
sheep grazing.

Look who started
with a suitcase of hope
and each spring expect
like the swallows, for their return.

The door of your thoughts,
pretending to sleep, remember
a past that it tries to grasp
hands too tired to
squeeze the air of a frosty winter
smiling and talking about the spring
had long hair, blond as wheat
and a laugh like a fresh stream.

Grazed sheep on the mountains
where hope fed land
too arid to cultivate,
here, where I step back,
Where am I listening to the wind,
and the story,
among the rocks of an abandoned house,
I get lost in eco of the memory.

Healthy food for memory                         Food for healthy skin