A colorless, eye-shaped smoke in the sky is my eyes,
That, instead of seeing, creates new skies,
New ground, and on it a new population.
None can be sure about my subjective realisation,
But what I see is more like a simplification
Of a horribly bad-mad world.
I myself am not sure how the colours are whirled;
The colours of dream- and undream-world
As clothes in a washing machine.
Myself is supposed to whirl inside that machine,
Among the instinctive desires and unclean,
While my true existence that no one understands
Is beyond those dark-coloured commands,
Just dwelling for observation.