The Village Poem by Darlan M Cunha

On an afternoon of any day for me, that is,
another day with no name and no date,
I went to the river
I went to the far field of the village, sometimes
I want to be alone, almost dead
listening to what is not heard
usually, the imaginary working in your garden
and in the ditches
for golden tomatoes, not blood,
examining a fallen nest (rare) , finally, barefoot
I keep stepping on clouds, not on broken glass
which is common in the daily life of the village.