Always, they say culture // flows like a river,
Where they savor each glistening drop,
Reflecting the world's countless tales,
crystalline and translucent.
I am a piece of trash floating on the current, // for decades,
Stubbornly insoluble.
My body, molecular structure, // unyielding, born of society,
Of machines, of humans, // of beds, of hands and pens.

My shell, a transparent membrane, // crimson,
Emerald hues dissolving in boundless waters, // swirling, foaming.

I do not ask to be picked up,
Only to be glimpsed alongside others // at the edge of fishing nets,
Existing without purpose, // in the most common place.

Created alongside countless others,
Without remarkable tale or history,
Awaiting children's curious hands // to lift treasures from the depths,
What remains visible is only industrial failure,
Cast away, mechanically retrieved.
Worn by fingers // until colors fade to whispers,
Or scorched by relentless sun // until all living traces vanish.
That is life.

They stand in appreciation // of sweat beneath —
My form and the drops that flowed // through my hands.