There’s a wind, when it roars, I find the cage; open.
And I see a black that goes beyond the stairway of lights…
I see myself…in a moving train,
uprooted… fragmentary… disenchanted.
Death never comes as a bigheaded pilgrim…it comes in a form of words that’s written on your gloomy wall.
I see that darkness and I feel that’s the loneliness I have always felt being on a windy roof.
The storms are coming… everything will fly like disapproved gypsies,
Though the lights are fading, I know this road goes straight towards a cubical claustrophobia.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Google.