Poets

The stables down from the slope, they say that a marten or a fox got the rabbit, no one is sure, it's rare that anyone stays here at night. The house too large

We live in a city without a river, there are borders here made only of wind or rainshowers. At night

And we went through my home town almost silently, he said nothing, as though everything had to remain unsaid, hot whisper lingered on that summer day,