I can feel your alluring scent in the room.
I dive in the waiting tardiness.
The anxiety rests in the evening thoughts
where there still are unanswered questions
from hiding targeted looks.
But I can’t remember the days
I was talking to crickets,
the birds were suggesting a high flight.
Every night when stones smile to cold springs,
the clocks listen to cocks crowing.
I leave earlier,
I might find a road where women pass in carriages.
Nightingales come to sing
in the morning and I can’t wait anymore.