summer in your arms
What can be done, when the soul
is lead ahead of the seasons
like if's a locomotive full of buds?
What can be done, when the heart
breathes the rainbows even if outside,
the snowflakes are still dancing?
Where to direct them, when the blood
boils into the veins and the feeling
is as if something stumbling them
in a landscape with a wind of summer
choked in some stalking gazes? Why
when so many butterflies are flattering
in the dew of the moon, the sentiment is
as if are caught in a frozen light?
How many questions are necessary when
in me, you're already the favorite season
out of thousands of dreams, and me, like
a flake, in summer, in your arms, melted
