In the garden the flowers are waiting to be born:
roses, mimosas, marigolds, bougainvilleas
all waiting since the dawn of the world
waiting for the first purest kiss of the sun
waiting for the soft breeze to blow
waiting for the rain so that they can come alive.
I am beginning to ask some questions:
like, how many flowers are exactly waiting to be born?
how many of them will be beautiful? or ugly?
but, still, the questions are just questions
still, that god!
maybe god is a man with a drooling mouth
a gardener whose body looks like
it’s stuffed with a dozen flowers or so
like the body has been turned inside out
and has got only bones
maybe god doesn’t have his own body
that’s why he plays with others,
maybe god is a dog spelled backwards
or something like that!
still I get out of my bed, and pull the curtains
and see the magic that is yet to be done
because there are flowers outside my window
waiting to be born
and that means somehow I will keep breathing today,
or at least, together with them, for a while.