The giant reeds’s book

On my grandfather’s veranda is April morning,
I feel confidence when he is near, and is more pleasant to read knowing you are not alone at home.
Nature puts the rest,
I pass through the beige pages,
my book title is: hanging gardens
I find some similarities with the river floral
the plenty wild sunflowers, nest hanging from giant reeds,  
pigeons, woodpecker, my sight reaches a hummingbird.
On the book the poet lacks money, he needs to work more than he wants,
the letters they interchange are friendly letters,
writing projects, poetry love, political struggles,
the poet lacks a garden,
an ordered garden not this wild landscape, with the invisible sun and though environment
Here we lack happy monkeys hanging across the terrific reeds,
I suppose an abandoned Indian temple looks too impressive as the closer familiar houses, the sunbathed fences, majestic ornaments of the wasted land,
instead the cats are everywhere, and at midnight the dogs gather somewhere at the riverbanks.