The hand of Fatima
I leave the whitewashed housewith the blue door
in the dawn's early hours
... And the heat has not yet struck
I walk along the beach
while waves soft swells
wetting the sand
... And my tracks are erased
I know the weak breeze
against my face
in the distance olive grove trees
... And I think the hand of Fatima
/Maria
Poetry by Maria Silvia
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Written on 2015-06-01 at 14:54
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