His black hand
On my white belly
And I can’t even pronounce his name
The saxophone
Keeps on playing
Origami birds fly above my head
I’m 15
And I miss home
But only happy letters get across the sea
If not your eyes
That saw it all
I could easily pretend it was just a dream
Dear Anna,
It’s good you don’t keep in touch,
How would we talk about it now?[1]
Bibliografia
1. |
https://www.anitalipnicka.com/inside-story.html |
