The Flower Called Nowhere

All the small boats on the water aren't

Going anywhere,

Surely they must be loaded with

More than simple matter,

Floating on top and gracefully tending

To the same pole,

All the small boats on the water

Going nowhere

Is it true that none of them, will ever

Break free and sail?

Feel the night is made of rocks,

The stagnant mass...

Is it true that none of them, will ever

Break free and sail?

Break free from the stagnant boats,

Left in obscurity

All the faces with their eyes closed,

Giving a smile,

Weightless

Like a body that would vacate to its

Own light

Is it true that none of these

Contented happy faces will not ever hear a cry,

Won't hear a cry?

Is it true that none of these contented

Happy faces will not ever hear a cry,

Filled with love not with desire,

Love not desire?


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