The Poet and the Child

If lines rained like colours
I would be a little more lazy
And find more time to waste
On a few more lines like these.

I am a poet for the child,
A sound for the untamed
A wall for the ailing eyes
I am a breeze in summer's paradise.

But I am also the known reality
Where lines cross among parallels.
If the lines still decide to rain on me
I would simply set the letters free.

For there is no price enough for freedom
And what's a poem if it lives in kingdoms?
The prism forms bands, waiting for tunes
I am the breeze in your oasis of dunes.