under the unseen wastes floating alongside the clouds, i’ve peered at the blurring memories of times bygone
the waves that used to waltz gracefully are now as loose as the sands in the shore where they used to land. when they ebb into their horizons once a month, the daisies planted on the ocean floor are revealed: wilting, patiently, beside the rusting metals of sunken ships and people
those who reign over the cities are still trading air and tanks with gold; the cosmonauts that remained are left with no choice but to dig and try to survive
they say small towns are now vanquished, but when you look intently beyond the forlorn and barbed wires, traces of life can be seen — on half-bare trees and on blood-painted gutters.
in where we reside, footsteps and words are almost nowhere to be heard. we walk lightly as how we breathe quietly. if you get to visit our place, squint your eyes and gaze beyond our tinted masks — i pray that you’ll somehow see how we’re still what we used to be: