I wrote a book of questions
For you, before you left
Until every event in my life
Became a metaphor for poetry
Is the lamp of my happiness
Tattooed on your skin?
Is my heart so dependent
That the night and day
Are prisoners to its food?
I wrote a book of questions
For the little moments of gratitude
And how the roots of my soul
Must climb towards the light?
I do not know how to live alone
Is it always the same spring
Who revives the role?
Experience does not bring answers
She brings sweet uncertainty
Between the orchids and the wheat
Which does love favour?
A woman likes security
That’s right…
I wrote a book of questions. Fantastic
Love this, your words as always speak volumes.