The ink will spill in the sky,
And everything will be coloured blue,
The birds of connotation will vibrate my senses with their music,
And I will be left alone in the vehicle of the loom.
The ink will then weave the world around me,
On a white raw planet,
And as soon as the colours will hit a vision,
I will be feeling a sense that only colours can meet after spilling a smile,
Only stars could revive while the universe celestial light cry for life,
Only the warriors who spilled red on the rough field,
And made a nation out of their reach,
But the highway to poesie is such,
That even while wearing the crown of creation,
The ink will feel dreadful about how the eyes will fathom a believe within me
And I will be a warrior wicked with deeds that humans cannot steal.
Poesie is a vivid structure unknown of its need,
But it swirls like cancer within me.