I walk in a light
sweep of purple fans,
I hear the mysterious singing of
the conjuring butterflies,
the yellow sunflower colour
covers the small wings
of the imaginative costumes.
I'm go round
now here and now still again here.
Marjorie call me in a low voice
has to tell me the little
stories that is impossible to forget;
through my way still more
in the depth, is sinuous
the breath that passes through
the round gorges.
Marjorie doesn't stop, she want
to speak abouth her grandaddy
that wrote the blues
at the Collinwood stations,
her grandaddy's, she says, name was
Alfred, but all the village
called him " RoughSea"
for his previous life
as sailor, between the Fortune Islands.
And now in the school
in the five meters wide corridors
they will nail nineteen postcards,
and the purple fans
will be always behind me,
to protect me, to save me,
to make me happy.
"RoughSea" has taught the sound,
Marjorie talks his
strokes of genius to cancel
the penury
RoughSea sings
" Happiness is a friendly talking"

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