At first you are that croak, helpless, fast blind, and not even on all fours, come and shower you with their blind love. You are their gem, her crown; don't know, but still belong to them.
Then you are this amazement and babble, which quickly deforms into these first and last, very bright questions. Your courage is so great now, that you often fall and dig yourself bloody, but you'll be back on your feet quickly.
You are a child now, and your euphoric shouts easily unite the sides of their streets. Maybe you are their investment. And they still love you.
But you have to move forward...
Because now you are already big, does not croak or be amazed, you're not a chatterbox. Maybe you still have courage, but it doesn't need that, because you learned, extend your elbows. Nod once to the left, Then right, always rich, and with small cuts, that cross your worried pupil, on your road. Are you still loved? Maybe you have luck!
You were now that croak and babble, Amazement and calling. Was this neutral, undefinierbare, seductive tone. No singing. However, alarm system; gear, potent part, completely function ...
And now autumn is already coming, and the light changes. Digs a tone in your heart, a bit of astonishment, a bit like bitter almond. You pause now, look down at a collapsed mountain.
And you might raise your voice again and talk about your failure, sell your skills, defend your right, to be one of them.
But you are buried under the mountain..
mistake! Are you screaming. Then you croak. Soon you'll be walking on all fours.
Then in retrospect you put everything into perspective. (Also, that maybe there is no such thing as selfless love).
Now you are this relativizing, End of a negation, complex washing. Your voice is low, because you don't need to speak loudly for yourself in your reason. But your body is heavy now.
Sometimes you go to the park and see the kids, how they cheer and play, while her parents watch her. You look at her and think: Your life differs from mine in a tiny perspective. Lower your eyes.
You are that murmur, Grummeln. Magic of a closed evening, not yet old and no longer young. Tree that grew too early and too crooked, too crooked. Whistle, when no one sees you, howling like a baby, without worrying about their looks, start singing, as if you were a child again:
I am that croak, helpless, fast blind, and then on all fours. Come and shower me with no love.
I, her gem, her crown.
Belong to myself.