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.