Sitting on the heap of debris
I decided to move one day.
The rain did not stop, I was walking alone.
It was a cruel time, my toes caught in bad thaw.
I was working on a bawling theme of comatose words,
a pottery of sorts...
In fact, the fear had not saved me.
The sun did not stop, I was thinking alone.
A prosaic neighbourhood had acquired weapons,
I was inattentive.
My wounds always bled in hooting night.
A flute it seems talked to me.
The moon did not stop, I was weeping alone.
Terrible, terrible it was to abandon my home of luxury,
to become a stone, to walk like a ghost with orphaned spirit.
The voice without echo, murmuring...
The ink did not stop, I was writing alone.
