I could really like a romantic pastoral life

With the pastel pink aesthetic

And a lovable farmer, hills of serene white grass

A church we attend every Sunday

Red cheeked children running along the erased and redrawn corners of lakes

But there is the ignorance, the apathy

Something inside twisting and turning to break away free

A spit on the graves of close minded mayors

And another on every alive and robust fellow

With no admiration to the starry night, or its god.

Then I think about life in a busy city instead

Everything in its most vivid shade

The smell of ink and rustle of papers

The fruity and tangy flavor of foreign afternoons

A desire for Uranus, but never the Gaia

The smell of an immortal plague, betraying the efforts of Camus

The metallic flavor of blood and saltiness of tears

Flowing from well-tended town hall gardens.

Most probably I am fit for the mountains

The glorious and countless peaks shaped like a king’s fallen crown

The forests and flames changing color as the seasons go by

The moon and the sun only in peace here

With the stars and snow whiter than the conscience of a nun

But our traces in the snow would only be the grayness of solitude

Like the pebbles Hansel and Gretel dropped

The only thing it leads to is our real home.

Maybe a small hut near the sea

Every color associated with a sin, a virtue

But blue always an open ocean

With no morality to care for, no meaning to analyze

But I have never liked blue in the first place

The ebb, the flow and the golden sand

Too meaningless, just like being a speck of dust

Nothing an old verse can’t swallow or a tide.