Writers' camp

should i smell the purple of this place
this is what I see with the eyes very much
Nothing too much, at the good meaningless
taste if it was a dish, light, refreshing
like water but not cold
I will have waited a long time
on the table
for a glass
in the jug

I should feel the taste of this place
The smell is so fond of me with me
that it is impossible to grasp
Only through the misery
through intuition
as if reborn
as if in disappearance

flowers somewhere, after all, there must be flowers
but they do not turn around, do not get ahead
folds the dog but from happiness, out of uplifting
The sun on the skin draws hieroglyphs

will be written
ringed
the writer

Beauty can only remain a word

o may come through the skin
even with his eyes closed
through inspiration
silence
presence

and not fit
to yours

a poem