Your road to my hand begins
With what seems to be rice paper –
A rolled dream or a cigarette.
We walk through the castle gates,
To enter the grass field,
To walk till we get inside the valley
Where there is no path,
And the green is the grass,
And the blue is the sky
In the spring weather.
Then, you start picking herbs,
You pound urtica
For the last supper,
You sweep away sand grains
To make colourants…
You are an object to be observed
and a view from which to observe
I’d run after butterflies if they’d been alive,
I’d ask papa to carry me on his arms,
I’d play something from Mozart,
But what I do now is a brief prayer:
Spring – the changing of waters,
Which we witness and which we can only follow,
Brings silence filled with possibility of summer,
We must have faith in something
That begins with what seems to be rice paper –
A rolled saga.
To be unfold.