Arriva

Arriva* We do not know each other. The fog is carving the ghostly silhouettes of houses, people and hopes. And like a sound the hand is – a semitone of the scream of seagulls “Arriva … Arriva” Nothing is coming. Nothing has come. I am trying to breathe – in a time beyond. In the gardens of the cascades before the dawn and after the rain. We do not know each other. You’ve melted in the sun, a sun in the fog and you’ve never been here. The paper remembers some passed sounds come from the outer world – Arriva. In our eyes we are burning. *Arriva (ital)-arrives