when I think of those who touched my story and disappeared in the archives of time without leaving any tangible traces, and me the same thing, when I think about it, I blink (or it looks like it))
other people's stories in the lifeline that stretches when closing one eye. Or the two of them trying
to tell me the path. Walked. Travelled. Used. Out of breath.I must rest.
Behind the door life begins
I draw with the pencils of another
that is a surprise !
I will say to myself I don’t know
I might say to myself maybe
like many things that don’t last
the world will not change
and we will fall from our knees
at the end of long lines
which do like the cold