The flowers still tell me colours,
the clock is in my little hands,
it's silence and the evening opens a door,
waiting for a cup of the hopes...

It's only a dream this heaven
created by my too clean pen,
the moon draws blue-gray lines
on my eye born by the sky.

The warm of the hand is cool,
the cats offer a huge rain,
it's the rainbow's end,
it's the white finger's sleep...

What happens to me? I sing, mute?
The numbers watch a life.