Piano
I want to go homesaid the small, blond boy at the doorof his house and I knewwhat he meant, how the hearthas a different number and streetand its door opens perpetually to a manwe cannot find in these rooms,these real rooms I have painted the colorof flowers longing for this interior winter,this winter of the heart to end,these beautiful rooms and hallsa widow and her two small boys wandernot knowing what else to dolike a certain length of musicin search of a piano.
I want to go homesaid the small, blond boy at the doorof his house and I knewwhat he meant, how the hearthas a different number and streetand its door opens perpetually to a manwe cannot find in these rooms,these real rooms I have painted the colorof flowers longing for this interior winter,this winter of the heart to end,these beautiful rooms and hallsa widow and her two small boys wandernot knowing what else to dolike a certain length of musicin search of a piano.
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