It is not really known
when they appear
or disappear.
Those are different mists.
It seams to me,
at a glance,
that this season of mist
takes away
even the Sun
from its sky's paths,
and those freshly crushed oranges
that got into the glass
of my orange-juice
to wish me Good Morning
to breath
and... to write easily.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem