in my cold room, my plants grow slowly. their stems push through the damp soil, and their leaves turn toward the light of the sun. i watch them cautiously. i let april pass by, taking its gentle time. for now, i must be quiet and alert.

for each seed growing in a strong tree,
half a million other seeds will bite the dust,
except, to taste the dust they must believe  in the power of usefulness,

- unable to think that they will never germinate
they let themselves be carried away by exotic dreams:
dreaming of being nibbled by sparrows, washed by rain,
smelled, chewed by squirrels, beaten by hot-cold winds,
swaying in foamy waves,
touched by a second chance,
than
rotten in the mud under a tree,  be it a strong tree, who cares,
in other words, about a vigorous tree when you are a survival  arch,
canopy
arched up to the white canvases.

Once upon
I felt the call
To take a midnight walk
And stumbling through
The misty streets
A voice began to talk

Fear not said ye
The angels call
I must have reached the Lord
But falling through
The gravel road
The stone and I’m the sword

The king of far
And futures will
Be beckoned by the light
With fist and tongue
He rules below
The tempting of his might

And yet we see
His gentler heart
Indulging in the arts
The king at last
Usurped from throne
The Jester’s reign then starts

The midnight walk
Turns into morn
And visions fade away
But jesters in
the place of kings
Will never go away