Why do we say it is raining
And not it is crying
Where do the bumblebees go when they rain?
If a baby had the dexterity
Could it caress them with its little fingers?
I’d like to have the agility of a goldsmith and the smallness of a child
I would like to be Lilliputian
And climb thorn after thorn along the rosebushes
And nestle among the silky petals
Inhale and dampen
Making the rose rain
It would cry indefinitely over my head
And I will drink in great gulps at its source
Is it a mirage in my desert?
A crocodile?
A fancy?
The tentacles of vice?
Sometimes some explicit letters light up in the sky and they keep me from seeing the subtitles. It has been quite a long time since the movie ended, but the weave is only just beginning to take shape. I am happy beneath everything. Nobody comes to trample the flowers of my garden.
No kidding, it is agreeable.
The stepmothers were uprooted by sturdy hands.
The saliva repairs as well.
The saliva shines anyways.
She forms a dome over the hearts.
The strawberry-shaped mouths talk and say « come and get wet ».
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