Maybe like an old tree,

old for who sees it.

Maybe like a beautiful bird,

beautiful for those who look at it.

Maybe like a gentle breeze,

soft for those who feel it.

Maybe like this little piece of bark,

small for me to find it,

small because it led me to imagine an immense tree, with a tireless bark contour.

The little piece became,

while I ran the fingertips,

gently,

he turned,

I became in the viewer

of a vision

that he transmitted

to me a reality

only felt by whoever imagines it,

maybe imagined,

maybe lived.


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