I SPEAK TO THE WALLS

I’ll do without the grass
without the campfire
without the red sky
without the old man with his Phrygian cap

I’ll do without the gray clouds of the end of the day
without the horns of the bow
without the young man in his white shirt
without his questions

I’ll do without my tongue
without the devil himself
without the numerous flowers and their names
without the ancient songs

I’ll do with the walls
with the armchair
with the industrial carpet
with the computer

I speak to the walls, yes
to the television (it doesn’t matter it’s turned on or not)
to the paintings I speak
with them, with the mouth harp

I’ll be the home shaman if you need one.

center, circle, round;
I see them where you don’t, when you can’t

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Vision by reading_is_dangerous]