Seven days and nights with brilliant eyes,
The art hung behind the painting,
Leaving no broken hearts,
But unlit cigarettes loned throught the streetyards,
With the ashes of scattered poetry,
Seeking jazz and a vision,
The hungry offers a seat and a rest at hand,
Leaving nothing but the shadows,
A red-eyed morning with darkness placed upon grace,
On a familiar roadside with shifted dreams,
Traveling down the cliffs of time,
Jumping to solitude,
Rushing to the coma of our own souls.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.