I sit in the meadow of my innocence,
the wind of going nowhere passes by
shining my hair to a golden shadow,
The sound of the year, clicking in my mind
make the time pass in the slowest way.
The gloves of red across my hands print the
pattern of palms across the sand by the
beach of forgetful thoughts.
I love the sound of these bees,
they are different,
and the way they sing is so sweet
it drops the sound of the rest of the world
to a mere justice.
What I would give for the fleeting noise.
For the given life of another.
to see a world of complete youth
in the eyes that shine like beetle shells.
That will never be mine for I live on an earth
of depth.