Oh them farewell mornings at airport gates
Their roundabout swallowing one after another
Looking back for the last wetly so long glimpse.
Then silently returning to town, opening eyes wide
Aiming them to hot stones, dry tears before they burst
Pressing my head against the seat like some filled up jar
And seeing those jets as they draw white chalky traces
In the childish perfect blue sheet of the morning sky.
© Foto: Pedro Serrano, céus da Catalunha 2012.