For Night Flows

The moon, the shaved headed nun, exhausted from cruel torture though hung her slender neck onto a limb of a tree stares at the bruise, the branded grudges in her heart, for she couldn’t close her sorrow-filled eyes and now, for the sake of the nun, the wind, the dying consumptive going with reciting the broken spells; he picks the spells up that fell onto the ground and puts them into a bag he carries the night grows deeper and deeper, the night flows more and more… The awaken tombstones, which have lost their owners, were inhale the ridicules once they threw at the pale face hung on that tree, munch the annual rings that slowly decaying; the stones dance madly intoxicated from the indigested annual rings with the legs as stiff as mummy’s From horror of this long night the branches of the tree are shuddering, and the forehead blood vessel, which is full of turbid blood, is swelling up awfully with heavily ticking time, licking horrible motionless hour, and burst, for the night grew deeper, for the night flowed longer… The uproar that scattered over the marsh and a glimmer of light that was thrown into the bottom of the abyss, embrace each other within the gulf of silence and darkness