A machine roars here in between the hills of black storms,
the cuckoos are all dead or living like beautiful refugees in distant lands.
A machine is rolling here…breathing aerosols and sweeping dust against norms,
there lives a little boy, a little girl, a tiger cub and some dethroned sands.

A drug dealer comes here once a month…to see the lubricants of this machine,
there are no trees inside his body, no swords under his tired beards…
It just need a river to flow right into the anatomy of the engine,
there goes a stream crumbling and oozing lights of wombs from its subtracted layers.

The boy wants to be a mechanic and the girl a poet,
both of them pass each other in the evening wasted and eloped by the sectarian stream.
They still don’t know about the choirs made by this artificial and bolted trumpet,
both of them still think they know their madness but they don’t even know the anomalies in machine made dreams.

I always see this whenever I get the last train of this city,
I see a wrapped place riding through the most isolated aspirations.
I have a one bedroom apartment… nailed and half burned from my insanity,
I always go there at nights to bite through a day and start another for that silent and late wagons as my addiction.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Google Images.