we'll be whispering out the names we gave each other, at last,
on those rough stairs. dressed like fae in disgrace,
finally an appropriate clothing for our condition -
and maybe will be given drapes of twilight to yearn
the mood of tragedy which compass our wills,
maybe we will tear them as we torn ourselves,
pales, the bodies left among the snow on the corners of the streets,
finding a sense of homecoming between the trash and the discordia.
- a subtle grim of melancholy grown in a lab, grafted in the sarcasm,
and flowers burned with the lighter some moments before dawn
is all our cruelties.
maybe the sun itself does that kind of things to himself.
to shine and warm the lands and stuff.
- sometimes we just say hello, shorts movements of the hand,
the faces staring,
faint eye contact, like in incognito,
give a look to the sky,
dear sky,
and give to each other a proper sound to be called by,
when everything just parts.
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