The grass, the silence, the moving of the shadow. Alone, in your morning cry, the grass, the silence, the moving of the shadow and the stalks of the wind. Your relief is to see you calm while waiting that I come from afar, your rest is the hope of meeting in the evening by chance in a winter. Leave you to disappear, to be your sky where you look without remorse, have your regret, your memory, your empty hands ... Maybe it's sweeter to cry than to have me.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 