Where do the tears go, if lost away from skins?
When they evaporate,
Do they mingle their salt,
Their crystalline aches, their hazy chagrins,
With the supposedly pure flows of rains
That cry from the sky?
That sky whose scientifically-dully explicable hints,
Clouded with pollution and flying impersonal machines,
Make you wonder:
If you could climb freely on air
As a perennial, parasitic, and so slim in its despair
Of life loving
Ivy, would you feel the taste of their liberated anxieties
In the kaleidoscopic uncounted tiny globules?