Writing poem

It is the morning full of tempest
in the heart of summer.

As farewell white handkerchiefs travel the clouds,
the wind shakes them with their traveling hands.

Innumerable heart of the wind
beating over our amorous silence.

Buzzing through the trees, orchestral and divine,
like a language full of wars and songs

Wind that takes in fast the leaf litter
and deflects the swinging arrows from the birds.

Wind that knocks it down in waves without foam
and weightless substance, and sloping fires.

He breaks and dumps his volume of kisses
fought at the door of the summer wind.