It comes rolling out from the trees, a sliced moon inside out, undressing. Pain quietly walks away. I wash out my battered dreams. A spiritual rain drenches the mind. A shaft of blue light provokes to inherit the sky. I hear the music, what is not there.
Anonymous creation, unnamed, unsung, I am waiting for a human touch. I know we have killed all the manners. Men are becoming roads, disappearing in landslides. In names we dedicate our customs of the beautiful past.
Notebook narrates but nobody writes on the wall. Someone scatters the virgin seeds like unspoken secrets. A scream becomes a custom, mining the unknown. We will gather the wings of fallen birds and portray a non-being on the mirror.
