Every record has its own time in the timeline of yours
Says the queen who’s whispering at the princess’ ears
Whilst the wind gently blows these silly minds of ours
And the heart rejuvenates a hundred thousand years.
Those words you read are from old Johnny Blake
Written down with half of sweat and half of tears
And a glass of pure water from a special inner lake
Which will endure even if the whole world disappears.
I wrote poetry because I am alive?
Or I am alive because I master the words?
This I guess I will never get it truly right
At least in this earthly kind of world
Maybe in the next upcoming life
When I will finally understand the flower
And the seed from which it has grown up.
gi.
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