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crédit photo : moi même

Wise. Feelings. White. Grey land.

Wiser enough, to feel this slow movement close to your eyes.

Wise. Is the name of this girl.

Shadow her slow look up on your shape before her smile like Red rose fade away.

I am watching the clear ray of light playing with you on this wise first morning. Playing with light.

Adoring light. 

Before we left.

This ain't the end. Just a few pictures, like words or colours reminding me how clear and sweet is the

light on the Island.

Poetry never lives anyone. 

It keeps pictures for memory,  kept as a treasure, a precious victory.

The first step through the grey land, giving you a key to open the door that leads you to the next

treasure. Word after word.

One step then the next one.

Like a person or another one. Not the same, but quite similar. But not the same.

Maybe tallest, lightest, clearest.

One step then the next.

A smile floating on the air, keeping an eyes on memory, meeting again each of thoses treasures.

Across memory.




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