Mon Vert

  Besides the weather so unkind It has not changed one bit The face of summer My back scorched There is no end to feel my freedom For when I can run I could be as fast And run to be  Like it would be my last race As the last horse on this world.

When it becomes the wrong place Like it has become The dried desert For grass When the sun does not set And does not allow the body in its paradise It would not mean anything Even when the sight of birds And the sight of the ocean Would not make Blues fade into the plates Of vagueness It would not mean anything.