Serrat Juan Manuel
Mediterranean
Those Little Things
Some believe that time killed them
and absence
But their train sold a round-trip ticket.
They are those little things,
that left us with roses for a while
in a corner, on a piece of paper or in a drawer.
Like a thief, they stalk you behind the door.
They have you as much at their mercy as dead leaves,
that the wind drags there or here,
that smile sadly at you and
make us cry
when Nobody sees us.

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