The sun falls from somewhere;
My inspiration comes from the air.
When the eyes come,
And the visions break in:
I'm desperate to begin.
This is the story of an ancient dream,
I'm not here to tell you who I am.
It begins with the sun
Crashing into the morning,
With letters transfigured into fire,
And some of them formed the word:
Where did I come from?
From a mother's womb,
Or from a recent wound?
The origins of this mind
And I sense the flavor in my words,
But it tells me to doubt.
The kingdom is far from the ground,
And thoughts are really high,
Nobody gets in or knows about it.
It's a strange, yet, mellow place,
Tranquil and refreshing.
The people in it are imaginary,
The clothes they wear
(There are no clothes there)
And their minds which never deceive.
It's a peaceful place,
Surrounded with growing vibrations,
And suns and moons
That brighten the endless time.
There is no time, actually.
There is no rush in this kingdom,
Or in this mind.
I can run away or slowly stay,
I can think, talk and think again
(Or unexpectedly act);
It's my infinite choice,
My senseless reason.
Justification isn't needed,
And freedom is real;
Real as the skin of my young body,
Real as the irony which is to write,
Real as my crazy but tender imagination.
The art is natural and mysterious;
Paintings that weren't painted,
Poems that weren't written,
Thoughts that I found somewhere,
People that I met in my mind,
Death which is everything except death.
These are only a few
Of the countless desires
In my psychedelic inspiration.
I'm here to speak my mind,
To appreciate the unknown,
To live by the indecent poetry,
To know what no ones knows.
But maybe it's me,
Maybe no one knows
That I'm no one.