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I am into you,

I say things not experienced,

About someone or something not witnessed;

With eyes of someone just unknown,

The snowy brain in the meadows blown,

The language I never speak,

The beliefs I never seek.

                               

Sailing on the sea or driving down the lane

The turn makes a sense yet so much insane.

I am with you,

I write things you did,

The spine of self, broken splendid;

No parents, no foods, no language of me,

Dancing are others’ songs of agony ecstasy,

I write about flowers and trees,

I haven’t smelt or felt their breeze.

The scratch in the frame appears and creates

Song, right or wrong, fascinates and forgets.