The Exchanger
I carried the breeze of freedom to the white mountain’s 3466 meters,
Exchanged it for a book about lunatics, poets, outlaws, and lovers, descending.
Here, nothing can be planted, but everything can thrive.
In the queue of people,
Descending crowd,
Exchanging messages,
Delivery of glances,
Different stories.
Moving along the same route,
You watched me remove those masks, speaking unnecessary words.
Wanting to exchange grievances for forgiveness,
Yearning for the ordinary in exchange for beauty,
Dreaming of becoming a poet but turning into a madman.
I don’t want to roam in this city anymore,
Because it’s too tiring,
Too bothersome,
Too many, too many stories to exchange,
Too many people to connect with.
The outlaw in the city,
Deceiving each other’s messages,
We try to plant,
But flowers may not always bloom.
