Your fingers seek refuge.
They have been fighting this eternal war.
Exhausted of carrying the mud. Creating figures and shapes.
To fanatics and amateurs, to practice on
Perhaps they will use them for other purposes.
Insignificant to you.
Perhaps they will touch the bodies you are so afraid to do so
Dig the graves, and bury the chaos you, always, postpone.
To musicians and painters.
Perhaps they will create the symphony of your broken melody
The song you never dare to sing out loud.
The masterpiece, which yet haven’t been painted.
Dear Tree, how did my springs dried up like this?
This war consumes my power. My little Fountain.
This city is moving fast, yet my vehicle is a turtle.
Searching for my breath …trying to catch up with its rhythm.
Alas, this is a rally racing:
A dog eat dog world.
You ask for help from indisposed hands
From crippled fingers
Little you know.
Would someone remember our brilliant stars?
Our spectacular moons and suns?
Our dreams and passions?
Our fears and sorrows?
Would someone remember our first name?
What is the purpose of all things important
Did we ever exist in this realism?
Did we ever exist in this dream?