Each day is grey, looks like the rest...

Some days are to change or to fling me mud,
Some stars are to fall or to brave the God

***
Each day is grey, looks like the rest.
They close the ways in lights of west.
Some people walk, some people dance,
But every moment really ends.

We all say “love” unknowing sense;
Love is a bow for our wince.
Should we believe the old men say
That love is keys for epic play?

Why should we look at stars and moon?
Why should we play like young baboon?
The days will cross the place of cold
With hollows on the heartland’s wall.

We make the wish become the truth,
We kiss Eugenia or Ruth.
Saliva finishes like seas
And dries in us like honey-squeeze.

The pearls we give and things we take
Are not comparable for flake
Of our mind in times of love,
That’s sober still, but it’s above…

We have our sex and cry in bliss,
We live some days apart and miss.
We make the usual love the dream,
Through nights and lights we lead that beam.

There ain’t no love except the fact
Of habit that will fight for back
Of ones with the desirable flesh,
The ones of our excessive dash.
- - - - - - - -
It is impossible for us to truly say
That love lasts for some years or more.
Inertia is the most greatest thing to play,
Affectionate is known as love before…
Январь 1998 года