When I paint tall, clouds-crowned mountains, I imagine
overwhelming heights.
When I picture a bashful sky, it's their divine colours.
Deep in the grounds are shiny metals, precious and hidden.
Olives have those deep green that reminds me of beauty.
I have never seen an olive as it is, just from pictures,
particularly a brochure that tells me olives grown in harsher
grounds grow the most nutritious harvest.
A troubled soul needs not to draw a line on losses.
If you're troubled enough, you'd have a pool of spent blossoms at
your feet.
But the buds of regret is young, oftentimes it doesn't bloom
in your garden, because the gardener gives it no
chances for it to even take roots.
Do the buds of colours laying around my feet think about the heights as I do?For the autumnal wind to take them somewhere I can never meet them?Do they long to stay at my feet to bury me in times?I do not have control in their wants, or fate if it mattered.What I could have to myself is nothing at all.
