Flowering region where bulbs form the daily bread.
A warm nest where people know how to scale life.
There they bury an egg filled with wishes.
So that they will all come true.
The result is the sum of scents and colors.
Flowers are divided, bulbs multiplied.
People peel and crawl to stand on their own two feet.
A child’s hand is quickly filled with blisters.
Bills as a plaster on the wound.
Half work will not heal.
Calluses are priceless.
Traces of old age on green fingers with a mourning edge.
Time flies since the railway crossed the barge.
Full of wishes I seize the day, have resigned myself to it and bury it in the sand.
Sunbeams will again merge with lines in the fields.
As in jobs with perspective.