From “The colour of wheatfields”


What have grown ups grown to be

Shattered dreams

Pain caused by reality.


« I was a fool, I should have stayed on my planet »

Said the little prince, eyes filled with a bit of regret

« I should have guessed the little tricks hiding in my fiction,

I was unable to understand anything,

I was unable to show my affection. »


« Shattered mirror

That I lingered on

Waiting for the image to grow clearer

And forgetting everything what was around.

Not seeing the trees and the water

Focused on the desert of my heart

Missing out.

I call upon life to have mercy for my soul

I  hope for the pieces to make the image once more whole. »


For the little prince hides beneath his childish features

A darkness, pain that fights with pleasures

Mind seizures.

Weight when he wakes up

Like a trunk, a rotten trunk

Or a stone, a boiling red stone

Pulling him down each time he stands up.


A beautiful story

Written on pages that cut

Paper that makes you see

The blood from a scar that doesn’t want to shut.


And they call this a fairy tale

And you’re sold

You only saw the shell

And believed the thousand words

That are not empty nor are they lies

But they’re not the whole story

They don’t tell about dreams and loosened ties.


The grass spreads but its colour remains unseen

though everyone knows it is a shade of green

And the hair will not always be golden like the wheatfields

The same goes for a soul that’s been trapped behind the shields

Scared to wake up this repressed child who’s been alone

Though the spectacles through which he sees life

Reveal the shades of the soft core inside the stone.


And the last thing he told himself before going on this journey

“Nothing can ever be the same

For when I see the sun turning red

It’ll remind me of the rose I tamed

when I see the clouds in the sky

I’ll hear you either laugh or cry

When I see the desert sand

I’ll think of the tone of your skin

And touching the ground will feel like holding your hand.”



But still full of beauty

And hope

That we’ll not grow up to be

What grown ups tend to be


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