The years go by, one rolls after the other.
Here I stand, tethered to the seamstress of yesterday.
A dirty, filthy knack slipped through the crevices of my mind.
Myself, I’m weary of the fact, grotesquely figured, self-fish and unexplained.
Unexplained to the surround conscience,
to every walking head vitrified by a network of blue veins.
The crowd roars. The end draws near.
Silence, furrows her dreams deeply clasped by her womb
You rise,in laughter and reverie reaching for the morning jacket.
The window pours a frisk glass in joy of the first joke of our lives.