Winding roads that flow like streams
of boiling water,
so quietly they seem,
yet as strange as children’s dreams.
Images of leaves and flowers float on by,
as do the echoes of old winter songs,
and everything that they had longed
for turns into a piece of something
Winding streams now look like roads on ancient maps.
No winding water, it’s just plastic,
that bleeds upon the gentle skin of our green Earth
like menstrual cycles,
that make life impossible and inversely quite possible,
all in time…
Winding through a maze of asphalt and of water
dark with tar,
and seeking April,
as some are seeking love.
like a golden dove
that flies in springtime
over a cloudy sea,
while we wait for lazy summers,
you and me…
C.2021, Francisco Bravo Cabrera, 29 APR 2021, Valencia, Spain