My son won’t write a poem about a coconut.
I’m running out of words myself.
Still, if he wanted to paint a picture
with the texture of ripe orange,
then by all means: let him get hold of a golden lemon,
and in a wink a warm wind
the colour of the setting sun will clothe it in a dress.
Imagination, mother of our life,
waft us more and more with improbable landscapes!
