Our dream,
an eternal spring.
And on awakening, a glimpse
of days ever gray
and lies of a sun
that never shows itself.

The nightmare of living,
corroded by days
that are not ours.

A being without essence—
like plastic flowers
in a golden vase,
handmade.

Insipid victories:
false perfumes
that barely linger,
their scent soon sours.

Be an anonymous artist,
shaping the life of dreams.
And may your art
suffice in itself,
so you never bow
against your truest self.

May your will dispel
the dark clouds,
and may your days
become, at last,
always spring.