The night was not black, it was gray,
the stars were green, fallen among us,
the road was taking to the river, up to the spring
then it was entering the tunnel, crossing over.
You left without waving,
it was a call or a break up sign.
There was a thin, bird blood
lighting like a filament
or like a snail trail
up to the enslaved heart.
Sound moments were flowing in the ear drums
beating with the hammer in a bell of time,
you were having feline glassy eyes.
Everything was complicated, unpredictable, hidden,
the mornings were getting you dressed up in smells.
The masks, worn from habit,
were covering the clown’s tired face,
sadly mimicking the joy.