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wasn't music and now the river didn't let him sleep. The city flowed like time when you're old. The rocking chair was creaking and he saw himself whistling. A glass of  single­malt on his hand.

Time had passed without a sound. The sun burns again, like a messiah, but its light isn't felt. Instead, the white blanket of sorrow, the winter of the bard's discontent. Now  the roads are without leaves and naked branches pierce the sky.

Profile for Ernesto Priego

Days of Flowers  

A hay(na)ku chapbook.

Days of Flowers  

A hay(na)ku chapbook.