Banalities of the provincial Sunday,
Passing of relay between the night and the day,
Silent bees, oils on the canvas of the sky
Electronic bells in the wheat fields,
The poetry is immersive and melts into the earth
Vases of stagnant water, where lonely roses shine,
The peasants have frozen hands under the August sun,
And my silhouette moves under the black madness of the wind
Silent stars, hearts at the edge of the exstasis,
Passing of relay between the night and the dawn,
One bottle of gin chases the other,
Electronic bells, it is past midnight,
Poetry is immersive, and my hand is haggard
The rain shakes the tiles of the house
The night envelops our bodies boned by boredom