Rock, moss, iron
As I roam the streets of fire lamps
Dinner, lunch, breakfast
Je ne dois pas oublier
(I must not forget)
The rivers that once converged
Like the verses of Bukowski
And Baudelaire
Which talk of the same woman
That smell of roses reminds me
And the old man understands that
She deserves to be in love
Despite it being beautiful metaphor
The same flower lady laughs boorishly
When they get the thorns
And get forlorn
The zoo, archways, beaches
These are poetic places
Until I met you
These places had a voice
Now I hear you in traces
Soon the meaning turns shallow
And I have to listen closer
To my heart to find the same song
Of rock, moss, iron
Crumbling to my touch
Exposed to the cold rain
Which I once waited for in my youth
Now too attached to your love
Rusting like iron gates