The night is silent, and in its silence, dreams are hidden.
(Khalil Gibran)

There Is A Tree

There is a tree...

There is a tree behind the window hit by a light snow
Perhaps the drops may have drawn its lines
Or maybe it is a real tree standing still in the winter
But as soon as I will move on with my car
It will became another spot in my dreams. [me]

A poem to start...

The Inns (by A. Merini)

I like the inns and their dark recesses
of the dormant
where people ends in the excess of singing,
I like things blaspheme and light,
and the glasses of deep wine,
where the mind rejoices,
level of magical thinking.
Is too silly to cry over a lost love
malvissuto and unfriendly,
the acrid steam of the best wine,
free,
better the intoxication of genie,
better, yes better
the investigation of the smoothness of deaf lives;
I love the inns
who speak the language of the subtle language of Bacchus,
and then in the bars
there is the name of Charles
written in letters of gold.