Poe 035

The green fields

The old Poet calls me

Viewing the sunset

And describe

How could

Into words

Something so beautiful

As the green fields

The mountains behind us

A golden sunset color lake

Words imperfect tools

Squeezing water of the stone

The work of the Poet


Hours of travel

Dark road

Bleu asphalt

The sun to guide us

Sweat the face

The car goes on and

The up and down the mountains

A green tunnel


The destination reach

Little farm

A place to rest

In turn words

Something that you can not touch

The feelings in a guitar

The sun dropped behind the horizon

The party of happy

Guitar which attracts crowd

Jumping for joy

Another day is gone

But it was not in vain

The wind from the mountains

The green fields in my hand