I'd rather die in a distant ground than return home,
A home that undresses me of my dignity
Home where I discovered that your brain can design your funeral before death arrives for your body.
I will roam like a wanderer and feed off scraps,
The wind can lick my skin or have it.
But here we have dandelions in spring and the buses do not come on time but they come eventually,
and adulthood drizzles with...