Like each drop of your humbleness
engulfing my urbanite woes;
the graffiti emerges in tender grace
to resurrect a windmill.
My spirit, the abode of small birds
carrying the sunset on its back
was returning home for the final-
sleep in the lap of twilight.
When autumn comes and crippled,
brown leaves start falling, I will
set the birds free in the winds
to find their new master.
The nest will weep for the broken song.
In space between the eyes, lies the negation
which will not accept the peace of a
grave. I will follow the wilderness-
of thoughts again.