If I were to go somewhere where we used to meet, I would feel the same.


Why

The soil soaked with rain,
and fenced with dry and grey
trees, was not mine.
I breathe in as much as I can,
and lean on a thin tree,
only for a while,
and close my eyes:
"The place is deserted and sad,
my dear, without your voice.
Why have I come?"



Poetry by Dejan
Read 476 times
Written on 2006-11-07 at 12:01

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