How many passions have I buried
beneath the snows of sorrow?
I stopped shouting at the sky
and the sky stopped opening.
I stopped admiring
countless colors in the clouds
and the days turned gray,
or if otherwise, I did not notice.
The trees were just objects on the streets.
I thought about money
and other sensible things.
I'm taking my clothes off now.
Look at me!
I'm more than a walking silhouette!
I'm going to practice some wildness now,
sing a sea chantey,
tell beauty she's beautiful —
risk being alive again!