I live in a far away dry-land
and you in the midst of the rain-forest.
We could still relate to each other.
I thus started weaving a carpet
to lay in the sphere in between
so as to make our transgressions
a comfortable affair.
I did of course weave the carpet with
facts and fiction
which you preferred to call truth and lies.
On your way to reach the middle-path
you admired those fictional threads
as shiny and smooth.
But when you are back in the rain
you are telling me that
I should have not lied to you.
I have nothing to say in response,
just remember those little violet flowers
that have blossomed on both sides of the way
when you headed back.
