A breeze, a forgotten summer, a smile, all can fit into a storefront window.
Digressions are part of harmony, deviations too.
A smiling lie is a whirlwind, easy to enter, but hard to escape.
Everybody talks, but there is no conversation.
It is not possible to express the most precious insights, To see all that craves to be seen, To visit even the closest neighbors in the universe, To learn all that needs to be learned, To live without dying, And I am sad about it. But I lived And I am happy about that.
Is it possible to write a poem or are these words just screams of outlaws exiled to the desert?