THE WORLD IS A WHITE SHEET

The world is an unmade bed.
Words the hoarse voice of a broken man.
Silence, not carrying money.

I dream about a caress
where words make sense.
I dream about the open borders of the universe.

I dream about a day like any other
talking about love, trips and rare books
within the reach of distance.

What is the world if not the sound of a memory.
The melody of an unhealthy throat.
A bottle into the sea in search of assistance.

I dream about a place where words have life.
A city with open doors
and a white sheet with all its banners torn.

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