We write on paper,
on computers, on napkins,
on market receipts,
on newspaper's edge,
on the plate and on trees.
We, who talk to the wind
with the voice of poetry
and words of stone,
are tireless,
transients of the night,
sleepless nomads,
crazy and imperfect,
neglected witches.
We go on dreaming
and believing
in the power of love.
