Underneath trees of emptiness I wrote
big verses; long, endearing and winding sentences.
The four-letter-word oiled me with infantile jolliness.
But the jolly fellows wore weird senses,
The senses that gave me away like a schmuck
The mango fruit I held in hand didn't make me smart.
So they laughed at me in turns, one covered mouth,
I didn't have to profess my mind I'm from the south,
But the lingering clouds are gathering rain,
I've worshipped a phantom called goodness in vain,
The valley I tried to cross suddenly swelled,
The trees I'd confortably sad under mysteriously felled;
The gentle summer wind will whispher away my naivety;
The goodness constant will not be replaced in surety.