What I read, each page, was a bubble, like a bubble, transparent, tint-full, flying, disapearable What I read, was like dreams of a piece of land, on which we live What I read, were hopelessness still hopeful What I read, as if, the poet does not leave the house, at all, pics come towards him. He is motionless, inhabitant of a city, a city of the present day. January 11, 2015 Susan Habib
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