Blind Flutter

Singing clouds, between
dreams, they hum for more days like this...bewitching each pine
in the hill, to straighten above their roots and allow each perennial branch
to drip with fog
and tears of lost seagulls.

Now, the floor's leafs cry,
marking the way
to the rhythm of their rustle, as they already
lost their flight. Between earth,
somewhat stained with sand-
picked and fallen from the feathers of the birds-
they observe the current, trapped
in the mist.

Galician quilt that hugs
and chills, stubborn as it decides
not to move.
You remain above your hills,
selfish, veiling the obscure nights
of lost seagulls and leafs that did not finish their flight.


I do not know if I am leaf or seagull,
 but both were soaked with wings without will.