The trees are stripped of life, preserved for spring, do not waste it. forced sway in the wind, trying to revive them, but it blurs colors. Above the pink clouds and gray Into Night there the sky colored infinity and away ... It is the reflection of a jewel. The afternoon is almost over, gently spent, It is a memory that still sounds ... Do not think of winter is bitter, it's just security. A flock is on the sky toward home, toward the nests, if they are where they were it is not certain but it is life.
Umberto F. M. Cefalà
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