Turning pages

White sand as acid turns the hourglass.. to dust. A raven stands, obliged to walk on burning time, for it cannot unfold its wings that shelter but a heart.. and so it crawls on its gait towards symbolic shells of sweet, dazzling nothing. Thus shall the raven behold its mirror turning to greet the man that stared his soul for such a price that tears of golden love would not suffice this crimson page be written.. or erased. And candles, free of fire, at most a simple flower with odour, for all to smell the shame that balanced forth those burning pages... to once again give tender life from glass to soul of stone.