A small frame grips the city,

Onto which my heart hangs,

Reckless with longing, I am

Forever unable to look ahead,

But rather focused on a road that,

Like Time, escapes in the shape

Of a figure I can never recapture,

But that constantly follows me.


At times I wander its streets with condemned knowingness,

At the earliest hours, where a cloud of fog and dust,

Dwell its landscape in careless eradication.

I become a phantom of its existence.


And when the light fully floods its veins,

It casts darker shadows on its vulnerabilities.

Harsh and reckless do faces appear,

Predestined to foolish illusions.

Comfort may be sought only in the lines of an aged face,

A tribute to times lost and redeemed.


Yet as the sun prepares its retreat,

My mirror explodes with the warmth of love,

Rebuilding my demolished landscape,

In which lovers wander in the freedom of today.


And so from my mirror,

I become the soul of my city,

And it becomes mine.


Forever my soul hangs,

Bare and susceptible,

To the landscape of fog,

To the austerity of light,

To the warmth of sunset,


To a forlorn choir.


The Tale of Night

The night is quiet, the heavens untroubled.

Beneath, the ripples of the ocean march in timid complacency.

From a lonely window, I watch,

As the night tells its tale,

Of faraway skies that fill with the smoke of rage and destruction,

A rage whose slow stillness silences the night.

A signal of the end of Time,

The mourning of a people who watch

A pendulum that swings only to the hours of living death.


But the night remains quiet, the skies sing in knowing sorrow.

Beneath, the ocean reveals only the secrets you seek,

A slow march of timid complacency,

That tells the tale of night,


A tale in which the laughter of youth rings,

Born amidst the bustling streets, yet

Indifferent to the hopelessness of mankind,

In which the value of life is nothing,

But ability to dream.


And still the night remains quiet, the skies stand guard

The ocean marches to the drums of Time,

Ever knowing of the stillness of the world.


The stillness of an air filled with the illusions of power,

The whispers of greedy hallucination,

Those who know not the laughter,

To which a parallel universe sings.


Yet time after time, the night remains quiet,

Singing to the stillness of a world of whispers,

And ringing laughter,

Forever bound together by the same universe.

As if there was no such thing as Time.


Time never existed,

Not to the living dead,

Not to greedy whispers,

Never in dreams.