Red

I would 

I would

I would 

And dozens of ladybugs fly on me and

every desire is a black dot in their red.

Curiosity becomes spark and

wing's beats produce it.

I would

I would 

I would

And you'll never know if it was what you've

 always wanted that reached you,

or if it was you, by moving, that reached it.

Because the solution is not in count of each point,

but to have distinguished each one from the rest.

As well as you wanted,

watching all that red, 

instead.