There is porcelain in the sand of my broken hands;

There cannot be candles to light the day;

There is a dead man who dreams of one he misses dearly.




The ways of humans – these ways of broken waves;

The time of useful sorry and sorrow towers in my life.

All the ways of humans so published in many moments;

They are broken from pillow and tears stolen;

Now is the time for deep and affection as it comes

and flatters me in unknown colors.