I read properly a book on parents,
That kind book in which parents talk about life
To their children
At a time when they are already gone
From people, from words.
I read, I do not get enough to see them and to touch them,
These obedient angels rotating like a twirl of air around me
Set the temperature of my heart,
The slow road on which I have to walk every day,
The bread I need, the books, worries, clouds, thoughts.
I read about the miraculous way they
Dedicate a life with fewer tears for me,
And I worship reading their prayers
Because they open for me, this way,
The door to God.
It's simple and good
To live in your parents' prayers,
It's an honest deed
To look for them in chaste places.