The Lake House

The house appears among mists, among reeds and long shadows; the lake sings to the dawn its song of imprecise foam.

Its walls are roots that the wave caresses in the constant ebb and flow of delight.

At night, it opens its windows to capture constellations; the roof, a map of seaweed, holds dreams in its corners.

In autumn, red leaves weep; in winter, silent snow; spring returns its shared skirt of lilies.

There are no more footsteps on its stairs, only the echo of the old wind that repeats, among light waves, the secrets of a summer in which it allowed itself to be lulled.