“In the end, we are all looking for the same thing: to unite poetry and life, to find poetry in life itself”.
Michael Ende

Ode to imagination

Time goes by, it flies and leaves marks on your face
and petals on your pillow. One day you ask yourself:
how to use ?

And then you .

I looked in the lives of others
for the scent of that were not mine,

and whilst standing before my own

I discovered that in the snow too grow
flowers as white

In the that gives us drink,

time is a mystery, a gift and an excuse to
go round, ,

the ,

that leads to Possibility.

On the shore of that sea where ,

you and I have nourished a

where pruning

and those flowers of time that we planted


we can always go back to that yellow forest


stories of fractal that repeat

the same in

and they give, with their ,

of a trade

that smells of iris, rose or eucalyptus,

it depends.

December 12th 2017

Thanks to Trevor Noland for the translation.

Photos taken with an iPhone6.