There's no much pleasure
In these days.
But yet I left a stick on a top of a tree
In a park.
Got there again, 3 weeks after
And there it was.
A special stick, an immaginary magical wand,
The sharpest mythological sword,
The scythe of a god.
A branch from a tree.
Dettached and disguised in its own.
Hiding in the clearest and sober place
A naked tree in the middle of the park
In the center of the obvious chaos.
There it was again.
My gift to myself
My selfless self embodied in
A 4 year old boy.
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