Fifteenth Telegram
The birds that migrated,
that migrate every day,
spoke to me of their love,
of their longing for the trees, their home,
of their fear of the dust of distances
and of the bitter season.
Once night has come do you hear the weeping of birds
do you hear it when the window of dream darkens on the shores
and the face of day burns out in the mirrors?
that migrate every day,
spoke to me of their love,
of their longing for the trees, their home,
of their fear of the dust of distances
and of the bitter season.
Once night has come do you hear the weeping of birds
do you hear it when the window of dream darkens on the shores
and the face of day burns out in the mirrors?
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