Poetry

My friend
distant but within easy reach of hand
You are the one who didn’t lose your faith
Surrounded of willing children’s eyes,
hardworking on salvation of humanity
and your mother’s dreams
You smell of the juice of berries
that you used to pick up at the time
of the low sun of the day
You smell of the cake that relieves palate.
One day
I will find you
at the fireplace in the wooden cottage
when the snowstorm will equal
the skies with the earth
Then sated with coffee
we will be reading each other our thoughts
rolled as snowballs
that we will set in motion down
from the slope of a high mountain
to destroy the wall
of people’s weaknesses.