The smile abandoned lost in the shadows of the trees.
Like a flash, as a relic, like a sigh.
The games that recreated epics and silent films.
As a beat, as the mourning of the wind, as rumors of the sea.
The song of the night in the hands that pray and dream.
As a stupor, like wheat drying in the sun, like a dead start. The dolls in stone at the site of the imagination.
As a fear, like a howl, like everything to be born.
And so they spend their days and passing the time.
Everything happens, nothing troubles you, memory is a sometimes impenetrable forest.
But no one plays, no truncated wooden swords, one draw hopscotch and old papers... there are only lost paradises.
Paul Leonard
