I pick up wet ground, after the rain, the mud of knowledge,
an odor smothered by time,
memories repeat
repeated
from the wet ground, maybe you will imagine sticky
clay, or fertile loose, from the red earth writhing worms
call you guru
on the steps of time, at the age that has reached its state, who asks himself: who am I?
what you think you feel is weighed down, weighed:
maybe doubt maybe something not sure,
wandering from the eyes
someone shouts in the rain: don't play with the faucet, later
pouring torrents of words flooding overflowing everywhere, sweeping away your dreams!
I picked up the words, from the wet ground, heavy rain, in
in my mind the words rush, wash away
naughty thoughts
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