vasudeva

Vasudeva

Lives by the riverbank
somewhere, somewhere
On cold nights
he usually wraps himself in a cloud
Love stories sound
in his throat of sun
The age of his voice sounds

His hands are weathered
by wind, by sand
He spends afternoons counting
the falling leaves, the leaves that remain
His soul lives flying
searching for a horizon
to be able to turn

His voice is heard in time
with open arms, with open arms
He lives in his land, in mine,
in all the days we are awake
With his blue guitar
he sings songs of light
Maybe we should listen