sometimes we would have dreamed ourselves chalk drawing smiling on the jaded pavement,
a map, a lucky number, a hidden road like an anatomy of sadness in which,
in obscure rhythms, an indigo sky would have tattooed us with light

we are growing old, in the embracement stories dust would fall,
thick, harsh, silent and like a useless wound, unwanted clouds come to pull the curtain folds over the
shoulders` arches, over hopes, over drawings

and the thought with too many shadows,
and the longing tired of myself
lays me on a tomb outline and
between eyelids parenthesis
the gaze would search for some kind of answer to "why"
it`s getting dark early in November