Watching TV, I saw my mum
having a sprouted flower on the head
just because it's March or
there's a cachepot at the background of the room.

I mean: I don't mind if I'm not recognizing the beauty,
because I'm building up the niceness;
I don't mind if I can't reach the truth,
because I'm talking about the good things.

Maybe tomorrow we will be the dust
of a star that never bornt - which anyway could be just a Shallow
(sorry for the Pop Culture)
-no depth, no insights, not you-at-anytime
at everyone
at every birthmark
at every planter.
Or maybe today we are The Bright
that nobody knows where it could be from
measured by the scale of the dragon -who cares
I don't speak dragonian, I only feel a blaze.

Watching the magazines, you won't discover me
and it consoles me
just because it's March or
there must be a yield inside my mum.

I mean: I don't mind if I'm not beautiful
not even true
because I find myself out talking about the good things.