has nowhere to go as the night
asks who are you?
in this great city in northern ignored and no traces
caught in the numbing cold, his face slowly wanders
while an intruder
feeling exhausted their hands to dig into their pockets
looking for a hot blade of his land
or a photograph
heart sewn and only the echo of his footsteps
say that there is still strange that night
orphans and rust
so different from those of orange blossoms and marsh
that still cover the skin
passage of the night everything is dense and confusing
and music as a focus
behind a glass is cushioned
where the dawn comes he says
how warm hug from a blues-flavored
sadness
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