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
wood
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.
