Let's stray off a bit from abstraction,
Though I find it to be the best way,
of expressing myself.
Hey! Give me a paper sheet and a pen,
and contribute to a creation
of the best poem ever written.
Smelling and admiring dead flowers,
Here on this vast plain; the ashy moor,
Where ghosts, like an ancient greek deities,
Dance and drink,
And stroll, chatting calmly.
Picking the black petals,
And harvesting the honey,
That causes an explosion of taste!
How is it, that dead and grey
Lead to a birth of life and colours?
Even after all these years?
Under the stars
and the pale moonlight,
I recall these lines:
"I want to drink the heated wine
Gushing out from fiery hearts of the Geniuses,
I want to kiss the flushed lips of Divas,
And stroke the manes of lone lions."