At the evening hour when silence falls over a day that has barely gone to sleep, I sat like this in vain with my thoughts, what is love? A sense of completion or possession? So many new idylls to set in the evening for reasons as if pre-created by others? A sweet memory of those who passed when love was a song, when sweet notes were lined up on guitar strings with rhythms as if sealed by love and purity. At the time when the lover was a partner on the road of life and not an object to be possessed until the "next stop". At that time, dreamers of poetry, of love and humanity were also born, at that time they lived values that today are "found" among the meanings and connotations of many "fishermen's nets", who want the human to be their model how to write a poem. Looking for it without acquiring it, but only using it, because the world of great poets was looking for rhythms of harmony in order to combine them into "the feather of a masterful bir...
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