Bridge

Bridge

It takes me back to the right shore, full of eyelashes, dimples and Mediterranean smiles.

With its stone arches adorning all my sorrows, rain and touches of melancholy. By the cobble pavement polished to glass, paved my dreams, joined all incompatible in me. It calmed all those weirdos that wander in my memory, on my slippery cheeks, that are hiding on my wrinkle sand who steam out of my nostrils when I’m scared or fierce, due to life trivialities or just a destiny.

I try to use my hands to move the pillars on which the sky rests, to touch the top of a cloud that resembles me and which scares the lost passengers in late autumn or extinguish the thirst of the cracked ground in June, some thirsty years and some thirsty life and a fate full of expectations.

I walk on my hands and I talk with my hands and I give with my hands. However, I’m taking with my heart and with my soul I change the cardinal directions, seasons and centuries.

When the sky is red before the summer and when the stars blink like an excuse for something big, I remember that not every bridge is made of stone and that in every soul is not just silk.

I remember that somebody’s thoughts make someone’s real life, someone’s smile opens the door of the east, and someone’s word stops time, as a sail takes the air we do not see and the song enters the ear as a golden river of nectar and scent, from which the universe stops and as well my pulse.

Bridge