l'equip petit: Mały zespół

Write

Is it poetry if it doesn’t rhyme
Or has no feeling, costs no time
To absorb, to take in, to turn
A flower only seen in the mind

Do I care, if my mind spins
The colors run under the skin
For me alone, never clear
A brick house made of tin

Words, the ghost external
Forgotten infants at a funeral
For every thought kept inside
Dies forever, life eternal