I walk in drenched evenings
Following the smell of April twilights
And the faint sound of destiny
Lingering in the distance.
Dead skeletons shout slogans of
Emancipation
From overpopulated graveyards;
And hounds of the night
Cry.
Quite en regle.
They are
Sights
That torch our eyes.
Words
That scar our hearts.
------
Photographs in closed cupboards
Housing hundred memories
Are bedaubed with the blood of lost years:
Life's Ignis Fatuus is full of
Smoke:
Yellow Smoke that rises
From this muskeg
Of ghostly lights
And truthful liars.
Cacophonous gramophones
With their musical clap-trap!
What emotions?
What life?
What death?
What humanity?
We are but a soulless group of souls
Groping in the mud
For some lost coin.
