You raise up the arc of the river for the enchantment of the bees,
and one by one, shadow by shadow, there are cries of joy
in the low flying mirrors that ignore you, and yet, throw your
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