As we walked through the old church, once more,
We saw little Andoni was there, sitting scared,
Asking us: "have you forgotten our prayer?"
He was angry and very square.
And, in the corner,
Shrouded by smoke,
Mahershalah Ali was there.
He watched on with an exalted air.
So we carried little Andoni to the aqueduct.
And we sat in the aqueduct— square.
And we sat in the aqueduct until midnight,
Where we had first concieved of our prayer.
every second is a moment
every did makes waves
ignore those who dormant
search for truth in eyes
the first lines of poetry is everything
the rest is indulging