Under my feet is a piped river. It’s narrowed.
A blue-eyed diva is alone in her splendour.
I'm reading Jim's “…breathed with my marrow…”
the light-haired maiden confused by the candour.
We are, both creatures, being dazed by the fair.
Howling iron streams of cars are passing by us.
Their troublous horns can disturb the air.
I keep on talking to her to come over the bias.
Anyway, we cannot find any flows of the water.
Stars are shining on the opposite side of the earth.
And, as out of spite, clouds are put off by the vault.
Is there any place where we could slake our thirst?
Either the girl's next to me or it’s Satan himself.
Sultry, poisoned streets are driving me mad,
my dry throat's being tormented by gist itself.
With my marrow I'm fated to slake till the end.