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A late night hour, I’ve heard no sound

But cracked whistles from the drain

Consuming what I’ve left behind

Habits, needs – it’s all the same

I am too like other things

Apples, beef and body wastes

I tried to lose the grip

I tried to fall asleep

But something shook me up

Flocks – They gathered round like clouds above my shelter city

Seaming roars of mourners, blaming God above

Leaning down their heads towards the Iris’s stem

There he was hanged beside his love

The cricket’s broken violin

I’ve never thought of why he stopped

His monotonic painful lamentation

The cricket’s broken violin

The stage – the stem beneath my house

Through all his life

Through all my nights

He tried to write his next creation

The herd was gone and I was left

To lift his tiny body up

A matchbox, a proper end

You’re dreaming now my only friend

A matchbox, a proper end

I write these words with broken pens

I wish I could dream too

I wish I could dream

Through all my life

Through all my nights

I try to write my next creation