Other people's wind blows
along your house and my house
with old songs that we hum
when sweeping the floor

We look at Déjà vu
once more and we dance
in thoughts, in real life
we are off the map

My breath is precious, every minute
twelve times pain and misery
twelve times the gentle wind
that conforms, that snuggles up

against the busy people
as a knowledge that we exist –
a reaching embrace
with always thinner kisses