You raise up the arc of the river for the enchantment of the
and one by one, shadow by shadow, there are cries of
in the low flying mirrors that ignore you, and yet, throw
reflections like food for the wolves
Basking in the enigma of viscous
kisses you shiver
while a golden ambience is dropping
down the mirrors.
A handful of sparkles is tossed into
space by a long drawn touch,
and the light of the night is
repelling the shadows of the day.
The greyhounds are within our dreams.
J.Karl Bogartte & Zazie