Can I call myself Absurd?
If convictions framed histories
How awkward would have the world looked like
Bulging here and there like ginger hunchbacks
How fast the pathway vanishes in to the dark wood
Leaving no trail of the distances covered.
From hill tops of brown and white
Carry the stillness of the yet to be.
Who said life is not a bed of roses?
Roses are vineyards
And vineyards blackouts.