suppressed by the artificial light
of this night shelter,
overburdened
by the death of your voice,
by you without me
my mind fails to spread the lamp-black outside
with the ill glimpse of the
I still spread illusions
on the spiral of hours
in a wandering thursday
bearing an uncertain name
turned towards yesterday
pilgrim in myself
climbing smiles
and hanging on words
Still
Blue flowers lying dead at the window,
left behind goodbyes
to be seen
and to remind forgetfulness
Blue birds hanging from the sky
in crystal-clear mornings,
so beautiful as to tempt you
to
PN