We once had such high zest.
Then the cowards spoke.
Not for heads that have
forgotten heaviness.
Or for the sky burnt by the sun.
They spoke for themselves,
and the silver-haired
chorus girls that frequent
their rooms – late at night.
And nobody could
remember how things used to be.
Afterall, the wind always sounds
exactly like a TV advert.
Miserable, clear and never-ending.
A Wandering Poet 