With a raw, ironic and ritualistic tone, with the same emotional and philosophical depth:

 Plastic-Papa and the sick iris.

In England, Plastic-Papa, the country of microstates disguised in Great Britain, they sell "I love you" with French kisses on demand, on Facebook, where the iris does not understand but mourns in updates, scrolls through farewells.

I spoke sweet words – they answered me with malice, claiming that I juggle adjectives, that I deceive. But what is false in kindness, I think, when someone is buried in their work, no light?

How can you love a face with brides in rows, diamond-ringed illusions, hollow eyes? When memory is a mother, exile grows and every woman is just a role that dies?

Don't say "I love you" – say "I see your pain." Let compassion turn into promise, not pagan falsehood.