Here, the rustling of this paper,
its bending to my will,
its leaving itself as always as always,
abandon.
Behold, its being together with others,
touching each other with sentences, mixing with accents, being with people, mixing.
And for this reason we are pages
well written,
badly written
we are history and feeling.
Here, there is? a movement of air,
we are the sign that remains, also for this reason to remember, to remember,
those,
those torn pages, those erased lives, without more? words,
without more? words.
And for this reason we are pages, we are history and geography, history in a photograph,
you see them far away, the swallows, still returning
and high in the sky
d' sudden gliding.
the rustle of this world,
the noise in the background and letting oneself as always,
as always,
imprison,
Here, in the breathlessness of the race that makes us forget the heartbeat,
the heartbeat.
And for this reason we are pages
well written,
badly written
we are history and feeling.< br/>You see them far away,
the swallows, still returning
and high in the sky
fast gliding.
And you hear them returning, that it almost seems real to me to be able to leave the my nest and fly.
(Thanks to cherie for this text)

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