summer almost gone
leaves already golden casting shadows
over the bodies burnt by sun and vodka

we are leaving alleys guarded by rusty angels
in the gloomy provincial town

your hand over the eyes
suspiciously watching scarlet horizons
whilst scattered streets
motorcycles and rockers
are slowly transferring
into an apparently malefic Middle Age

towards the single platform station
chill under our skins
tempting to awake us
a coffee would be perfect in one
of the underground taverns but
the French district is closed as
white and terrible bugs invaded it
one night before like
in a bad horror movie

down
in a waterhole
our pale faces-
a wedding picture
in the warm light
of the lanterns