I missed the trees
I liked my solitude, it was my soul's profit
and cared to build my prowess, with content
often I longed for my patrial home's soffit,
and felt to inhale the aura, Aegean sea sent.
I missed the wind that in pine foliage whistles,
where birds were playfully singing in Spring,
and I wanted to count the Winter's thistles,
on the plains we played, where memories cling.
Scripts are little souls that learn to survive,
in austere years afar, with my friend the sky,
celestial trajectories their scopes contrive,
where affection is limited and coldness nigh.
My icons roam on a go-to-meeting greenway,
ideal forms, with poems an affable to grace,
they follow the tracks of an infinite railway,
with scopes on a marble surface to outrace.
I missed the hovering of butterflies and bees,
the haze of joy, the warmth of April and light;
a girl that waited under the sour orange trees,
that smiled to me during my to faraway flight.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
Added by Poetry Lover
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