Sometimes I go days, weeks, without writing down a single lyrical idea. It is in those moments when I (literally) force myself to write. Whatever may be in the back of my mind, whatever dreams, suffocating under the weight of daily struggles, I bring them to the surface. The following poem was written within this context.
Everyday I think of the swans in our lake,
the aquatic flowers in our pond.
They do not exist yet.
Or, perhaps, they do.
Waiting for our locked hands
to make the way down their path.
Everyday I dream of our parisian place,
the first independent space
we'll call «home».
Have its walls been freshly painted?
Or does somebody else inhabit its halls?
Everyday I long to rush upstairs
if it means you'll be waiting by our door,
perhaps I have been fragmented
by the hardships this world holds,
but perhaps if I hold
this vision long enough,
you will glue my shattered parts
with liquid gold.
And so, everyday I picture vibrant blue
igniting fires in the snow.