Standing in the middle of the forest A silent green afternoon, The light entering through the gaps in the leaves It feels like someone's old memories are rekindling in your chest.
The small house on the high loft is filled with the smell of earth, The soft sun falls on the roof As if someone has caressed the forehead of a tired afternoon.
The man sitting down on the bamboo stairs, When you see the silence that has accumulated on his back, it seems that he wants to talk a lot, but does not want to break the peace of the forest.
The whispering sounds by the stream, The dry branches lying on the ground, All together, a secret song Rolls around the entire scene As if nature itself is writing On the pages of its unseen diary.
The water below the loft is the sky caught in his eyes, maybe washing itself a little from the dust of everyday life, from every broken fatigue.
I see it from afar and it seems to me, that human happiness and sorrow are actually a lot like a small house, a quiet stream, and a little higher place where the mind can arrange itself.
That house seems to say that no matter how far you go, you will return to yourself, as long as you have some soft feeling like light inside you.
The leaves of the forest move in the wind, the sound is very soft, it feels like nature is breathing slowly.
The man still sits like himself, with his inner world.
And I write in my mind that life is just like that, even among all the forgotten dreams there is a small loft somewhere where we one day learn to live on our own.
