Birds wouldn't come here to build a nest, nor angry wasp or toilsomely ants, the wind will go as fast as it can and rain, for the dead garden will never cry...
Seeds are like grains of sand, making this desert a little more wide...

My garden in spring is GRAY, old,
all its flowers GONE and DRY,
but I know the name of each one
so DEAD today under the sun light.

Here is SOLITUDE, hiding always,
rejection made it so very shy,
leaning to and inside the shadow
of a tall SORROW that will not die.

Like a leftover pillar of the ruins
of a forgotten temple in the past
PAIN, embodied in a black cactus
with mean thorns and not a life.

REGRETS grows here, everywhere,
much as an unwanted weed alike,
sucking from the earth its power
until all are made of unfertile sand.

SINS are the peripheral stones of
a garden that no rain, nor any man
could wake up to a former splendor
of colorful and perfumed plants.

Because the salvia of ENVY trees
spitting "it" around for a long time,
killed the waiting seed in the ground
making place for plenty of darker ANGST.

DESPERATION shows no flowers
but it gives a stench of FEARS grants,
that's not even wanted by PARANOIA
but just so in love with SUICIDE.

Don’t come to my garden if you are
one of those people believing in SMILES
and think that TEARS nurture, because
everything DIES in this garden of mine.