Just like interlacing old threads, moving from one moment to the next,
the absurdity of our lives woven into the normality of a child’s dreams.
Not rushed but short-lived, the day goes by with the wind,
with the hours,
with the errands,
and playing roulette with emotions.
I stall and stare back at my reflection, imagining what the next airflow will bring.
Perhaps a few degrees higher, dust in my eyes, ripped leaves,
perhaps a melancholic breeze.
A cheery flash, a burst of enthusiasm, a displacement.
Spring has brought carmine tulips to the neighborhood corners,
as an attempt to color the day with something new.
But all I see are the bold black strokes that draw the sidewalks,
the rough asphalt carrying heavy air.
If only somebody could answer me:
is there anything more beautiful than splendid turmoil?
Life is always,