Wandering through the blue and tranquil laziness of purer days, I felt the glance of marble eyes of modest gods of love that touch us but move on when we think we're saved.
As light on landscapes makes holograms of old red barns that fade as dusk and sorrow lays color aside, barren as a statue there those modest gods of love appear.
They touched on something once as I checked dog-eared calendars for dates and made as Adam, Paradise - youth in the mirror - betraying age.
They move on when we think we're saved now I have nothing, save a day, a scent of old books, diaries, the last rays in a summer sky.
What could those modest gods of love have now that have escaped from Adam's eyes?
