On a bench in a cemetery,
sitting alone,
I stare at a grave
as still as a stone.
On a warm morning,
enjoying the silence,
I try to seek a sound
I try to feel a presence.
My thoughts run
drifting away
soaring in the sky
as a bird of prey
And while I feel dazed, watching an old tree.
a blurry shape appears to me.
Francesco Pistillo 1st May 2015