Blaring sounds, piercing glasses
    
         A finger, a nodding — everything is broken

              Ashes turning into a flaming dust—

Cough! A dropping or skipping,

slipping from the store illest, illuminator dark

gazing back, I hold the knife close to

my heart, and he's looking like a calm lion

probably a hunter, eating everything

and swallow down.

A wind tips the nose, voices merging with muffled

lamenting, painting a ivory yellow —

they, whimpering a little honour

moaning with bleeding winery phase,

He lifted the glass to his mouth.

Beckoning a bell chimes — everything goes around,

Eyelids shut, savouring the murky hand

caressing so little, making itches in moles

sobbing in the verses, you have so many but

lessened fit in you, poet— this ought to

be endless. . .

      
       Whining shadows, aversive turn—

A loud shot to crack enough,

      A lightning, scrambled in the wet ground.

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