You don’t know the minds you stay in…
and that’s a stone, a wave like mountain.
You don’t know who thinks of you in their solitude…
and that’s a breeze through the scratches of a tree.
People don’t speak anymore.
They think they attain the cosmos by being silent…but in reality that’s just a scorching and depressive world all around.
We don’t know time…we don’t know how it’s connected to our teeth…our hair…our sex…our shits…our perceived dreams.
I see a man going through the intercourse like a homeless bastard…
and I see the whore… beautiful… enigmatic…full of green grasses.
The converging generations going to meet the start of the reformation…
And a poet will always be there to speak less and die early.