The circle of grass,
The men in suits and hats are trampling,
I lay in the middle frowning,
The sky is grey with clouds,
A ceiling,
If only it could fall and let me raise from the ruins,
If only the men would stop smiling,
Piercing with their eyes my deserved rest,
If only there were no fingers tapping the surfaces of many watches,
If only there were no black suitcases with an ocean of paperwork filling them,
The grass is fresh and invites the mouth to bite,
But I would be poisoned,
It’s fake.
The blades of grass are fake.