Greenhouse

In this beautiful garden where plastic flowers bloom, we insist on feeling their scent in the air. We want to touch them, to caress their contours,

Trying to make them smile, as if by a subtle bribe, Stepping carefully, never treading the same spot twice.

We don’t need to water them — I never have.

I know it must seem cold to the eyes of those who don’t notice, but walking through this space deceives my own eyes.

The senses are lost, for they are never met. Steps counted, never repeating the numbers.

Colorful, in varied shapes, they are here. Yet I cannot see them gleam under the sunlight’s touch. They close when cut, they open when smiled upon — a lie? Their different names keep them anonymous — a lie?

Steps tread lightly, as if walking upon crystal. I shut the doors of this garden, of these girls and young women — For so I call the flowers that should perfume the air.

The buds slumber in their vases, they no longer bloom.

Plastic flowers, yet they make men weep. Steps halted, without the strength to move on.


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