Like a song without unicorns,
Flying with a contingent wind,
Chained and crucified
Forced to crawl only on incandescent soils
Without any ascension prospects
Only derisory, explanatory itinerary stops
Each cursed with a pair of left wings
Neither to bear the same name
nor breathe the same waves
ever again
Compromising one’s doubts
With dying rays by the side of a fast lane
Gambling the latest tears
Turning off all hearing and sight
Quitting the present to make room for the past:
No one to hold tight for a while,
No mirror to check your background,
No familiar fragrance to recognize,
Only desert powder and a sorrowful mask.

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