Cloud

In a corner of my days

I saw a shining memory that was no longer mine.

Its father was time,

its mother was a guitar playing on top of wandering dreams.

Their child fell into my hands

and I placed it on an oak-tree.

A bird took care of it and now it sings.

How can we find its father veiled in wind?

How can we collect its mother's tears

so as to give it a name?

As a cloud passes

we will glimpse the arrival of eternity banishing time.

On that matter, nothing more can be written.