Autumn

Where I come from
the autumn is red
and the streets smell
like apples, chestnuts
and fire.

You can taste the warm air,
is filling your lungs,
feeling sweet and calm.

I look through my windows,
so rainy, so gray and
also, like here,  so cold.

It could be the same place,
just a little bit further.
It could be.

But is not.

It doesn't feel like fire,
it doesn't smell like hands being warmed up
by the heat of the chestnuts
rolled up in a newspaper cone.

There is no one selling  autumn on the streets,
nobody laughs while testing the cider,
steeping on the red leaves that cover the floor,
like a carpet that reminds you
how beautiful are the seasons,
how warm was the summer,
how cold the winter will be.

Nobody speaks about how warm ans sweet is the wind,
at this time of the year,
we all from fall in love with our land, our origins and our roots.

La Casa

Ya no vamos a la casa,
en la que crecí.

Hace años que no veo
sus paredes blancas,
su cocina roja,
su salón de luz.

Pero, yo,
la sigo llamando mía,
la sigo pensando hogar.

Art