I walk in lights
weep of purple fans,
I hear the mysterious singing of
the conjuring butterflies,
the yellow sunflower colour
covers the small wings
of the imaginative costumes.
I'm going round
now here and now still again here.
Marjorie calls me in a low voice
has to tell me the little
stories that are impossible to forget;
though my way further
in the depth, is sinuous
the breath passes through
round gorges.
Marjorie doesn't stop,
she wants to speak about her grandaddy
that wrote the blues
at the Collinwood station,
her grandaddy's, she says,
name was Alfred, but all the villagers
called him " RoughSea"
because of his previous life
as a sailor, between the Fortune Islands.
And now in the school
in the five meters wide corridor
they will nail nineteen postcards,
and the purple fans
will be always behind me, to protect me,
to save me, to make me happy.
"RoughSea" has taught the sound,
Marjorie talks of his
strokes of genius cancelling
the penury.
RoughSea sings
" Happiness is a friendly talking"
