Huge amount of very small things - A poem by Frederico
They might still be there.
Beyond the city walls; far beyond the sight of urban dogs.
The wind brings the scent of old leaves
and makes invisible marks on the sand.
Can’t you hear?
Something wild came along with season changes.
It’s there, in the beginning
or in the end of very small things.
They’ve might been long gone.
All of this could be just an approaching storm,
right there where all the constellations converge,
where ancient gods yet battle to be borne.
Or they might be already here,
roaming among wet trees,
far beyond familiar dreams.
Can’t you hear the sound of hooves?
Know those hearts won’t flee.
Know their horns won’t break.
You can almost hear them calling.
But not yet.
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