The Wood

I am a real person
And everything known to me has a colour.

The sun gravitates around me.

When I am beautiful
In my collected tears grow forests.

Photo: Maria Butunoi

Post Scriptum

Sometimes I think I’m made of words
And not of flesh
A poet eating ice cream
On a tree leaf
But other times
My very flesh will make the words
Which float like water grains
On wooden tables.