lights in the sky, blessed is the eye
which encounters such a surrealistic sight
under the sheet, night habits hide
from ignorant judgments
but
sometimes it ends in a cry
when
under, there’s another human
sent
to allure the spirit,
disguised
in endless skin deserts and round sand dunes
a
fake gold, a Fata Morgana which disappeared, leaving you
alone,
with your feet in the air, smoked whiskey and wine
and
fine cigars,
nothing
joyful, products of a mere passing existence
you
wonder, where are you now
knowing
that maybe under the sheets you die
alone
in time.
