• “The sound of the wind stretches its limbs.
    The jazz music witholds some of its ruckus.
    Hands move something in the dark.
    I say: just an old romanticism...
    No matter, the place will fit everything.

    Vision descends upon flaccid pathways
    and rides them on cheap metal.
    Dried out trees and others take their water
    from the drowned sand by force.
    I say: a passing depression.
    No matter, the place will fit everything.
    During the day the sun approaches the mountain,
    places its hand upon it,
    its cold hand of lovers,
    strikes stone with stone.
    Mountain scrub dances behind the stone.
    The sun does not see it.
    Only the moon shines upon it all the way beyond the bend
    and the guardian stones watch from afar.
    I say: a passing coincidence.
    No matter, the place will fit everything.”

Topics