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I rarely begin on paper,
Paper, paper, paper…
Your sunlit face,
A distant church bell,
My verse gets born
Between your hands,
Talking or walking me coffee,
Coffee, coffee, coffee…
It hits me out of the blue,
Also in my morning,
Morning, morning
Hide-and-seek games,
When I stretch and minutes stretch,
Painting you in my attic,
Attic, attic..
Sensing your ‘buon giorno’
Giorno, giorno
Delivered to my phone.
My words get born between
Your voice,
In blue great waves,
A shatter of white doves,
Doves, doves
Lands on the roof.
I rarely know why, of course,
Of course, of course…
You usually rise early,
Early, early…
Gather fraise de bois,
Stand by the window
With no one to see you,
With someone writing you on paper
In her dream…