strangers are about to blossom.

two weeks off-the-grid,
a continent to cross.
from eindhoven to istanbul,
five classmates on a train trip.

strangers i was willing to meet,
coffee i had to offer.
my hands were shaking,
i drank it all alone.
only too few conversations happen,
but memories sticked,
eight i kept in mind. from them,
poems fell down
and i had to came back.

(your life is a garden.
each person you meet is a seed.
you plant it and water it,
and all those strangers,
turn into flowers)

were written on white bricks,
eight poems.
where the bricks were dug,
eight flowers were planted.
a sanctuary for the eight strangers  
i had made, a mental image.
a circular plaster construction, soil,
and a fully analog made book,
were left to me.
and in the forest i performed  
those incongruous social interactions.