the visit on the first week of May
when you arrive
the doors do not open
by themselves
the locks are asleep
both of you get inside
you find that the air is still
not really tranquil
there is simply no hands
of time
that welcome both of you
the bed is ready
yet you only put your bags
and then leave
the field of loneliness is fertile
yet not word has ever grown
the seeds rot
and the rain never stops
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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