I Fell Into a Glass of Wine

my feet same the cries of deer in the morning, disturbs the existence of aged wine, much too drank, while the smoke of elation, almost non-existent it hits you across the cheek and entail questioning What did you write in yesterday's history? Carrying all the words of the world in your hands you clench your knees as broken rudders, reproachfully, The roots disturb the sky, you wish you could decide when your identity of yesterday and of today it's not the same when the verb decency has been lost, respect gnawed at the walls of a foreign hourglass. You melt as rain, on the face of a monk and flow. All you have most sacred in your life is: The day you were born and the day you die wrapped in a thread of basil.