somewhere, in the gold echoing fields
the wind turns through wheat, removes its hat and bows
the barking, howling speech
dares the moon to lower its neck
'hum a tune, then lose your head'
oh the peaceful inches of the evening
where the sun and moon meet
like gentlemen dueling on Swiss Street
who will not return, cracked like autumn leafs
and twigs you walked over
in the middle, where its still
your eyes open while mine spill
you gulp, choke, but swallow
this is my sadness
brushed on me, i am bruised like a canvas
a child in a suit posing as Miklós
but not as handsome, and still not as verbose
and when my vessel shipwrecks on the shallows of the eastern coast
will you pick me out like a chrysanthemum among the dead?
will your lungs burst in silence when you check my pulse,
then my pocket?