I beheld his filthy arms once, procuring the night melody.
A verse, meaningless and stubborn like an armour.
His ambience, my ambience transporting the solemn gestures.
I can’t touch his molecules, can I?
But I can touch his stomach probably or his draping eyelashes.
I want to breathe inside his starless hut once, and I want that as a souvenir for this immovable race.
Brother, woods are calling you as well as a smiling lady’s wet breasts or a branded jeans shop.
I find no nobility in these words.
But you keep on leaping and hopping and make this place a space of life.
Swirls of time is coming.