Dew roams the streets like vendors and children, telling them every happy story, every evening it penetrates my veins and makes my memory birds repeating their old anthem. This is how I go out yellow with the morning, without promises or a graceful look. I only have a strange language and things in my head that are so far away, that I don't understand them. Yes, my language is on a cold night, without shame, it inhabited the heart of the sun and fell as yellowed paper effortlessly with complete spontaneity. This is how I am; a mirage carrying sweets and promises in my pocket. I will dive deep into the earth, hoping that amateurs will find me. I will be silent, so that the chaos hears my voice. This is how I learn to write the new history, as I do not know water except vinegar that dries the blood of my veins, puts love in its pocket like a yellow pear, the birds built their safe nests in the holes of their bones. I am the last thing I was looking for, here I have learned to turn around without limits, a city without a beacon that reaches the sky, I sit in the middle of the hill for nothing but an assault on nature. Hurray, O yellow words.