No sense left to make sense,
nothing to be desired
in its fullest of grace,
in the mundane ageing of a waving sunset
With purple shades of stability jumping off the night borders
So young
like an insane dreamer
used to waking up in the morning
and claiming the previous day’s prophesies
from a stranger
whose unreciprocated yet obscurely seducing illusions
leave sleeping slaveries behind
always at someone else’s disposal
courteous and humble
their primitive nonsense taming only recurrent fears,
their lucid exceptions,
an obvious contrast,
awakening the echo of ticking fees.

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