Machinery goes on the green soil burst by the sun that smiles great shines.
Phones talking to each other and people, silent people.
A bird still flies on the horizon and some of us look at her like an answer to everything.
In part yes she is but there are other parts, though forgotten in strange screens of
infinity and nothingness. Go to bed they say to me that delay my evening awaiting someone
or something. In the bedroom we call for her but she awaits another exploited one.
The streets full and cars march, sit on my back to get me there soon, little bloom.
I've forgotten it and loosing it I find life, but life doesn't seem that willing to be lived.
Must be the seasoning... Or else there is no more road to be, only things to eat and see.
Things, just things and phones look at me and people look away at a screen of delay.
Life is an open space and it takes time to be with her more than mine. Wanting
to find the time, space, ground to comprehend and feel the conclusion of the soul's earning.
The train is coming, the flight already flown and the legs weight the mind's ache.

Finally someone to care and talk and the streets walk my life and my heart no longer a
scarecrow but a phenomenal organ of giving and receiving. Life's stance of improbability.