The poet
wanted to write a poem, then
was the place where I always wrote,
He packed in his bag
Some poems,
A paper
a pen,
few cigarettes and a bird
And when he arrived
was installed under a tree on hayfields
long hours and thought about what to write
When he realized the time and night did not have any cigarette
But a plucked bird found in words on her skin,
That said, the poet Lord took me out of the bag to play with you!
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