There’s flow in mad river, there’s friction between sagged mountains and moored waters,
and there’s me waiting a lifetime to be visited by a graceful friend.

There’s sorrow in horizon,
there’s suicide in grey coloured evenings,
and there’s this disappearing body weeping for more intercourses…for more unhinged symphonies.

There’s raindrops on dry dark leaves,
there’s a house with no windows and no doors by the unused shore,
and there’s a wooden bench to be slept and forget about the mourning nights of no vocabulary.

There’s a war for death,
there’s a war for life,
there’s a war for children’s play,
there’s a war for a cup of coffee and smoke,
there’s war for snow and blizzard…
and I have no choice in participation to this conflictions.

But I know my weapons for a fight…
a long dragged silence and a piece of paper as my demise.

…………………………………………………………….

Painting: Jack Kerouac.

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