What has remained behind you?
I red you so much,
that from you, still breathe
today, just a line,
just an instant.

Only so much can make your hand?
Can you ever call back the dreams
as we never been left?

Today there is a general requirement
of literature.
It remains the bites on the shoulder
and over the hurt,
the burnt soul and
full of clinker,
hung alone
on the clavier.

Today I need silence,
to feel how it’s running from inside me
the last bit of paradise.

Once upon a time,
when the words
clothed different
and smelt
like musk and deal.
Once upon a time.
Do you ever remember?