The runaway husbands have no tales to tell
before long their roses dry and the love die
as they tie in strokes of un-diffused confusion
watching the time decay as the tempest night cries

When the morning comes you die again
like that rug that was left for mere disuse
in a field of the undefined and defiled
dancing salutes with an invisible Sultan

Sometimes the questions are unanswerable
and clusters of closure are permissible
as the dim shine glosses to a smooth polish
the suffered broken parts of the strolls unashamed

It all takes times to feel a whole again
and the beat of the drum arise in fiery fumes
Streaming, a-coursing deep in the veins
searching for a surrender to that serene direction