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It is a drop of soul,
exuded from the poetry,
alive because is reflecting,
what it is there..
as much as..
what is not.
Still flame rythming my breath.
Still waters containing my pain.
Still orb of fantasy snowing in vain.
Still and muted carol,
captive in a glass jail.
Time passes slowly,
when you are travelling
in each flake.
And my little girl’s smiles
are warming the air,
hidden behind the singers,
she agitates the snowy weather…
of the miracles of the heart.
This poem is subjected to @ Copyright Rosa Cobos 2008 - all rights reserved
July 14th, 2012
Viewed 34 Times - Last Visitor from Clermont, FL on 08/03/2013 at 1:16 PM