I make my way up, to the terrace to see the afternoon sky,
When a wind blows and takes my hair away from my cheeks.
The sun is setting and the sky is pink
And within it are hundreds of kites magnifying its glory.
It is as gigantic as ever with an air of coolness,
This is the perfect weather for people like me to find solace.
I open a book just to find myself being somewhere between the towns of Italy.
Suddenly the crowd feels distant and their voices just a jargon.
I get lost in that small moment of mine,
Until some vague pieces of poetry start forming in my mind.
At some times it feels like the perfect expression of my feelings but at others the words seem dry and without any emotion.
I wait and wait for the lines to make sence but at the end it all goes in vain.
I wonder if I could ever be an individual of many words for all I can do is write a mismatched verse.