Since I’d descended from the tree, I still hold a cactus thorn; It travels into my blood; each time I open my window at a sin, it pricks me into my heart.
From the moment he’d left Paradise, he found out that divinity is an eternal elusiveness, and that all roads to paradise are paved by thorns.
He steps along all of them, at whose ends always finds his past life hanged on trees he’d planted by his own hands.
Thorns standing on cactus leaves are neither spears nor rocky eyelashes.
They are the shape of life’s throbbing into the corpse of death.
When babied shadow plants conclude their mute speeches, and my lips get peeled inside a cloud relaxing on the top of a high building;
When commercial placards scatter their cold smiles on streets decorated by cacophony;
When a lion mews in a zoo, begging a domesticated chicken’s wing drawn by chalk on the wall;
Then I go back to the soil from which I came, and drink the water of hoax inside a cactus.
Cactus is the taste of self sufficiency, at times of leaning on canes made of leprous air.
A cactus tree is a green galaxy, in a sandy sky, radiating icy thorns of light.
Cactus thorns are a reminder of instincts which dropped down of our pockets on the road.
When a hedgehog settles inside a cactus tree, identical unite, so dialectic get embarrassed, and looks for antitheses in resemblances.
Each time a cactus breaks on my bosom, there erupt two cactus bushes, a fig berry draws her swords, and a nightingale warbles.
A thorn is a hermit, filling his stomach with rareness under a ceiling of hollowness.