The visits of the dead
They were no ghosts,
They were the images of my own sadness.
When they came
I opened the fingers of their hands,
I kissed their palm,
Then I closed it like a fist.
I murmured: keep what I feel inside.
They were no ghosts,
They were the images of my own sadness.
When they came
I opened the fingers of their hands,
I kissed their palm,
Then I closed it like a fist.
I murmured: keep what I feel inside.