My sky is fiery red with orange fields as clouds at sunset,
All the better to walk its brimming orange fields' set at a day's end,
Under the shades of leaves, we glance at glowing light,
It does not take its form, nor does it twinkle bright, it tears the violets from oranges,
As pushing comes the moon atop, and seamlessly shy,
The garden is pressed against the sea and slowly the ripples and waves,
Among the blue, from fathoms deep, raises its hands,
And presses onto its bosom what was left of the sun and clouds,
Concealing a sealed joy, leaving only a mirror to glance, of what is the sky inside, and what is now the sky in night's time,
But soon, all the air, of what was left in me strangles out,
All that was all the better to pick oranges, is all the worse to swim for,
A fraud, if light is there to be shed upon the deep, the oranges wither asleep,
Swimming from different points, it all brings me back helpless up to shore,
Is the nausea it brought back to me not enough? left to float all the joy and stab me with every thought,
It does not matter to it, what joy did it have? What tear matters in an ocean? If it never felt, was it real?
My reality, a product of what is now behind a mirror, that sways, restless, and relentless,
A lie, to all lies, if I did see oranges, if through its fields I walked, you left me here,
Trapped not with you, but searching for your hopeless cause,
But what is it to something that will rise again and fall every day?
That will stretch its boughs and reveal its sent to many more,
To those that do the same and leave and leave, no thought, no feel,
The seeds that grow near each other, all the same root and all the same,
Stealing from each other, loving it, but to me who would chase, you, the garden,
There is an absence of sentiment, you leave me,
"Swim away, swim away, swim away."
