I Pensieri Del Fiore

The Thoughts of the Flower

No, don’t touch me, don’t pick me. Leave me here.
This touching, touching and not grasping the essence
not listening to the silences of the water
and not being able to remember old flavors
of burning wood, of earth,
animal scents.
But how to go back to being kids and see?

And we don’t feel
the thoughts of the flower,
it’s true color;
and noise,
always noise
and words and words
without even thinking
that if we throw away ambitions,
false goals, values
we’re left bare like this.

No, don’t touch me, don’t pick me. Leave me here.
Maybe searching, searching. I’d like to go home,
I’d like to feel that good, that bad
deep and reckless,
without walls forcing the mind to sleep,
the instinct hiding behind gates of choices.

And we don’t feel
the thoughts of the flower,
it’s true color;
and noise,
always noise
and words and words
without even thinking
that if touching is feeling,
seeing is understanding
we’ll fly like this.