The Refrain of a Pensioner

Sitting on a bench, lonesome in a corner of a park he fills his lungs with green air and idly he drinks the milk of light.

He rises slowly, and he puts the path, as a fiction book, in his pocket walking towards the gate of twilight where his white-dream night lies ahead.

Every day he repeats this journey without betraying the day, air or wind until the twilight runs away from him or the night locks him in forever.