poems back artist cataloque

My spirit doesn't grow inside the sheathing of
the human body.
Mirrors offer that disguise.
I am a tree with the sap of life to drink,
Roots have penetrated where
The wind some day had brought the original grain.
The motion is only directed up.
From the terrestrial blackness towards the Heaven,s azure,
And agitations are the branches it is stretching.
And stupid hesitations are the rustle of the leaves.
The wind, the one that's coming from nowhere
and going to nowhere,
Deprives them of their lunds.
And so desperate and silent
Stranded leaves are hovering far in the valley.
And then within a by-gone by-street
Time is brooming away all dried and yellowed leaves,
Losing their rustle, losing their flutter,
And only those ones involved in other's branches
Are calling to join them perterbed.
And I hear them all call for help !
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