Smoke by hand made cigarettes,
accompanies the remembrances,
the tear does not bother.
Music will fragment my heart,
My tears flow through your facial curves.
The sky is outside my window, I peek.

Two or three puffs and i shall perish,
you speak to me, «come, be quiet».

This time the world may keep the whole world to itself.
I will wear the wings of a fugitive.
Sounds may accompany me, wherever the road shall be.

{ Κι οι φτωχές πνιγμένες κραυγές μας θα στολίσουν τους τοίχους των κυνηγών μας.

Αυτά! }*
For the time being.
* - And our poorly drowned screams shall decorate our hunter's walls.
Enough said!

Words even Fail to satisfy these simle thoughts.
Are those mornings realy so hard to wake?
Only a fake turbulance,
caused by the occasional
experience of communication.

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