Little song is a bouquet of roses held in my hand. I looked for depth in the Rose, I looked for the poetry of its petals, slowly drying, deep, dusty feeling. Little song is a daily ritual, the cigarette now consumed between the fingers, the pungent tobacco brings the gaze far away, Kafka's pages repeated from memory. A scent of earth and smoke, of roots and resins. Finally, even time has its scent. I keep writing this little song endlessly, like a dirge. Little song is a narrow space, it is a deep connection with life, with the past. A perfume that shakes the heart, that reaches the depths of the human soul.
