Shadows avoid the clouds even in the midday sun.
Out of focus, shadows fall all too vaguely.
The last shadow blurs; forgets space; forgets itself.
I’m tired of waiting for shadows to come back.
I don’t want to draw all the lines by myself.
I’m tired of looking up for the clouds to return them.
I want to steal light, like Prometheus stole fire.
In this blasphemous light I would remember darkness.
I would share this light with the birds, so they recall.
I would teach my story with the grass, so it reflects.
They would be my partners in crime; my confidants in a shady offense.