There are hues of blue embracing
those of red
to vibrate in harmony. There is a sense
of their movement
above the limits. There is ceaselessly a feeling
in the sense.

The feelings can be objects.
Conceivably, the things have a beginning,
because we believe it,
and maybe there is neither beginning nor end.

In the spring rain,
there are kissing statues.
In the lulled lodgings emblazoned with
shadows of shabby objects on the walls,
there are lonely people meditating about their life.

There is a measure of vulnerability
for everything that is good
and for the starving birds
in searching for seeds
everywhere
as for those cancerous youngsters having
unimaginable pains,
still yearning to be cured not till experience.

In the coverings,
there are riders of the history
dressed in armor to enter the mind's imagination
and all that is not the mind's imagination.

In the spring nights,
there is a moon becoming a curtain
for the great vaudeville of the stars
formed from the other stars,
no two alike, and being like
charming women wearing masks
and wide necklines,
nor like those ballerinas that like to costume
in lactate white to suggest
dandelions dancing to spread their seeds.

In the luxury shop windows,
there are gems looking like flowers
and flowers
looking like gems.

In the Sisyphus dimension,
there are tired eyelids in abeyance.
Nothing bends from above,
everything falls down.

There are emerald northern lights.
In a puddle of sun,
there are emerald green, tattooed bodies
dancing tango.

There are cubic dragons,
and there are things that have been taken
apart to be put, then, back together
in a wrong order.

So, there is self-loathing,
and there are feelings of worthlessness
in a life spent earning filthy lucre.

There are resentments to destroy the lives.
There are the wrong things
that fall apart and
the wrong things
that fall together with those that are right.

There are words coming out
in a wrong comprehension
to be incorporated into bad memories.

There are wrongly imagined riders of the history.
Uprising dove feather and prying eyes
get at the meaning of the truths in the uprights
(there are many truths left) .

But there will never be
blue trees
and eternal corpses.