Dreams.

Every once in a while
elements plot
in the steam
of someone’s sight.

And there grows something so fragile
that it becomes transparent.

It is so transparent
that one can take a deep glance.

An in the depths it is white…
so white
that it’s simply pure.

Every once in a while
throw your heart
to the sky,
a dream
could be
ready to condense.

© Ernesto Vargas Rueda