These are the stones of sadness,
wet, cold,
unending.
And it takes you to the pick,
the silence,
a song of a skipped town.
Every sun sets with a smell of dope and a bar of smart conversations here,
at the end of the wild night you certainly know that you are here cause you are a finest source of imitation.
There’s nobody,
you are nobody,
you will remain a nobody,
and at the end my friend you will lose your body to find someone.
I am talking about the sadness like old stones
remaining
and withstanding.
I sell a tiny bit of it everyday to find a place in this sullen merriment.

Photograph: Frank Tschakert.