I have this way of waking up
I fill my senses with the scent of spring time
I wonder if, left alone for a while,
I will begin to grow flowers from my skin
And if they will be as beautiful as my memory is
I listen to daybreak’s sweet delusions
Blurred in a rose-colored candor
And cultivated in a cooling soil

I open my eyes

It is not springtime
It never will be, again
I rise from my grave and I walk
Phantom petals falling in my wake