In front of the black window, 

Greeted by sleek lines, rain slides down 

in a slideshow, on the blue hours a few 

might stay, little knives stab for gold. 

Gold clusters, in a flickering screen 

everything dies— first shot — slip out, 

soft explosion don't make noise, 

suck and disappear. 

The opera house opens once again, 

Music rolls out, crinkled jazz burst out, 

He bears nothing in the slack hues, 

Saunters around. 

The dusty road seems a haze, 

of worried glances, 

everywhere— he looks like wayfarers

bidding, sighing against the crimson moon. 

His fall— downfall— 

was a slideshow, just like the rain glides

down on the window, colours, dusty roads

all appeared as rigid blows. 

It's not dawn, it's not dusk, 

It's the golden hour, before everything 

dies out, flushed beneath his feet—

Suddenly it floats— it floats— 

Flipping, tossing his hair on other side, 

He whispers of duck love, no one can hear. 

— 22nd May, 2024.