IN MY TIME’S PORTION
Philosophy is a source in a deep bottom. The more you dig it the more it hides its blossom. I have dug my heart for a rose smiling at some white cotton. This rose isn’t mine as my ages rush to their corner. This cotton isn’t mine as my ages prefer their motion. Death is said to be a monster. Death can’t peel philosophy’s folder. My ages rush to their corner. They have written something on my life’s poster. I still force my heart to give me its blossom. My heart is my love’s slave in my time’s portion.