Our souls are empty space,
    black peeling paint on your bedroom door.
Our hearts are made of bursting yellow,
    dripping handprints of eternal sun.
Our eyes are dull and lonely,
    murky paint water and smashed beer kegs.
Our eyes are smoky and dark,
    grey as Rimbaud's cheeks on the covers of your books.
Our hearts are bare, white skin,
    liver spots and silvery temple hairs.
Our souls are speckled brown doves,
    the beating of frustrating wings,
*je rappel maintenant ce que c'est que d'être libre.