Flowers bloom in the mirrors like broken letters. Poisonous, according to the rumors,
Flowers silently count museums of noise in the towns of crumpled birds.



Like flowers that grow in
antediluvian toilet bowls. This is the music of
refrigerators and banned sculptures,
cut fingers and the tongues of the cats
mummified in Bubastis, multicolored pieces of water
running along the pipes. It is
a real problem to love your
mother tongue. Flowers swing, but
they don’t hear the words.