I rolled a joint and went for African savanna. 

But there were awestrucked alcoholics only, 

Some grass here and there, some pimps in the corner…

My beautiful savanna…my literary savanna. 

People used to hold roses between the teeth

and wait for the smugs of the last train. 

Their sweethearts, their charismatic companions…all came…all went and never came again. 

We were living the bonfire in desert. 

There was nothing called self-love…

Too busy looking at the women with bewildering behind…too busy in making noiseless fuck. 

Drink and write away…drink and write away…

Dance through the music…

Our fiction started from there…