The morning wind
it sounded its trumpet at me
it pulled me out of bed
calling me from its hole
that I found in the window
when I lived in The outskirts
There was a forest wherever and
I had my house
I accompanied me in my marches
when no one was going more
and the wind to the branches
and seals and turns leave Br/> In my expedition of the valley
returning from the sawmill
stirring the leaf litter and
grinding the wood
I remember it and pulling it
of my love's hair
Broving something and fleeing
to the race
joking with the hats
and pushing me the portion
that we pardon because
the wind did not open it.
The one who dancing
to stumble and stumbling light and just
when you fear something it is the one that
is the one that smiling
blows out your candle.
One day we moved house and
we came to the city
the move brought furniture
and us with suitcases.
In the little house in the forest
we couldn't stay
they kicked us out, thank you very much
and see you soon, come back, come back
Under the pine tree the little house
what you would be able to see
if the treetops
were tilted just
it has about three dozen
months without giving a sign
I no longer know open their windows
nor did their chimney make smoke
perhaps the wind will have whistled
perhaps they sat down to wait
before forgetting me forever
and continue their pirouettes
I remember him and I hear him watering
the junk in the workshop
carrying leaves and raising
dust devils
and I hear the pine trees sway
when they hear the song
br/>who murmurs while combing
the hillside.
The one that blows in the afternoons
and is the one that overturned the tablecloth
spilling in an instant
lemonade and napkins
That type and no other is
who has dedicated himself to doing
all kinds of tricks
maneuvers and tricks.
The one who danced away
stumbling and stumbling
between trunks and stumps
turning and turning
that type of subject
who disconnects the light
and just when you fear something
it is the one that
is the one that pushes you and slams
the door.

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