The Wind Has Not Carried It Away!

It was stored: the finch’s clear songs, in the cage: in all the moments of the earth’s turning on itself in the sunrises, the sunsets it was recorded, it was stored the voice of the singing nightingale, perched on the power line, high above the lanes. Like the drops of water of snow and ice, in all the moments of the seasons, beneath the bruise-blue curtain of the plains like the aquifers beneath the soil ...