10
what i am
time erases from time to time
what i write
the letters fade and what
comes back to my mind
is the blankness
of the wall
i have no complain about
the ways of this
eraser
in fact
that is the way how i want
myself to be
fresh to the waking up
of all hours
new to every eyes
horizons stretching
without end
roads flying roads
birds with four
to eight wings
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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