This year
There will be no summer
Inestimable afternoons
When not much really remains
Only a silence burning in
The oven of the passing day
The desiccated thoughts
Spread like clay
Pensive trees
Along tepid waters
Consenting to the miasmic
Life of reflection
Floating as if
There is still time for return
But that is really not true
Because this year there will be
No summer to tell you
That we are not here
Not here any more
