in the shed tears of the full moon
the great history sleeps under a cobalt blue sky
the little history, blood in the veins, huff in the lungs, breathes and hopes
and then falls into a salvific sleep
with the head descending into the embrace of a good whisper,
senses that as far as known, morning will always return
and like so remains silent and rests in this calm storm
as a dandelion in a meadow at nightfall
until forever be
fragile and precarious forever
ephemeral and frail as sapphire breeze
Marco Bo
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