Where is the source?
Is it somewhere for you ?
No source is spilling for you.
It’s never in the same place.
It’s secret, unknown to many.
It’s neither fresh nor salty.
It’s so close by.
To touch it you’ll travel hence you’ll never reach it.
Stop refusing to swim and drown in it.
If you accept the well as something you will never get, you may cross the
desert and never feel thirsty.
The well has a door to a lost somewhere, it’s right on the bottom
I was waiting for you.
It’s cold now,
in my squirrel’s cave I feel safe and dry and warm.
Springtime is already here if you want it.
The candle lights my mind pouring words on paper.
Recovering for the good season,
preparing seeds to make my brothers and sisters smile and sing in joy or
ART OF NOISE
the last bad version
Bees following soundwaves I can’t hear, among unbearable waves.
Side to winds whispering in my ears.
Noise is a choice, a will to be disturbed.
Noise, I am unable to perceive any purpose.
My legacy is to believe,
I am the son of a mighty God,
all things and creatures and facts, must have a purpose,
this I am doomed to believe.
Purpose is being, becoming, transforming, movement.
That’s all about noise, like the white noise of stars, of ocean waves and blood in my veins.