I know the taste of rain
and how bitter herbs cut
in my tongue – everything edible
tasted and destructively processed
into a garden of memories

with paths of love to beds
of friendship and borders of vice
stakes of anger, ponds of sadness
and a smelly compost heap
of failures and wilted ideals

it sounds more orderly than the maze
it is, the web in which I got lost
of which the threads have become thin
and matte, breaking easily
in the merciless sun

that has evaporated
the glittering drops of dew
of the sky-blue illusions from my youth
and everyone calls it wisdom
that comes with age

to detach people
from their desires and last
physical discomforts
but I discovered
it's a secret