Gentle Branches

If we touch
they say we'll flow,
weave a fabulous song,
open new lands,
calculate mysterious formulas,
speak to lost gods.
Our lives will be the last
of an endangered season.

The winds of absence still blow.
A language of an opposite direction
passes through the landscape of contemplation,
riddles and poems,
a bright furious blue, an edible sky.

If time heals all wounds,
enter the days of miracles,
elegantly, randomly.
Everything
is already written.

Let's take the shape of an  immaculate
meadow, an empty cloud and
a flock of birds,
the endless space of sweet grace.