Blue flowers blossom on my desk, and your silence, your silence.
The song of a nightingale suddenly pierces the heavy and ominous shades of a sky in slumber. Remember, remember … what? A confused voice stirs in the depths of abandoned shrines. The glass spiers of the city melt slowly away, swallowed by the fog of a sullen melancholy.
Blue flowers blossom, intoxicating and vain, over my paper heart.
Sound of paces, is this strange pain already rising, this appalling void, this exciting anguish, I long, I long to utter before it perishes? Still, lay still among the waves, sound and safe in your womb of sweet lies. Ophelia is drowned in madness, and voices, voices all around, chanting her pale face merging on the flow of murmuring mysteries.
Blue flowers bend upon your breath, broken and battered.
A song is raining within me its harp drops, is it love, love, love that’s dawning, breaking the darkness with crystal rays and thrilling chirps? Where are you going? Where are you? You’re gone, already, beyond that dream that floats dimly upon the frail line of multiple horizons – only the clouds can whirl in immensity without being torn in ecstasy and vertiginous folly. Secret fingers glitter with golden dust, the flesh is shivering for lust of life.
Blue flowers rise, shine and devour the dirt in the corners of your mind.
A beat, beat, pulsing stronger and stronger is banging madly on the walls, awakening an inalienable sense of freedom, beyond shifting identities and silky cocoons.
Lonely blue flowers blossom on my desk, and your silence, your silence. Outside, the wind is blowing and jumping, like a bee drunk of flowers. Like bees drunk of flowers, we are, flirting with butterflies, one bright day.