We love things that dissappear,
all that nostalgia – and
water wars with the sand lakes.
Already, the sky has less sound –
and almost no thoughts.
Only foul language
and two lines of blood.
Even the dimmest sunrise,
still leans towards the dark.

And yet, I walk as if I was another.
A small creature of memory.
And this is light for me.
For all things soundless,
and rehearsed – have an end.
A thin line that fades.
The remnants of a brooding peek.