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You my dear love, like a sceptic shock
entered my limbs and gave me a
a wasted kiss.
A lazy embrace which lay stretched
like hollow streets, hyper, hypnotic I ran
towards those sepia streets.
Time didn’t freeze, as it never does,
Yes! Sun will be the Moon tomorrow;
never doubt what the blind women say.
Wind withers on letting her raven hairs
down, making way for that barefooted
dreary dawn.
To descend coyly in the wedding gown
and embrace the Sun and the Sewage;
You and me in it’s sandy shroud.