There's a world between the fires
Knives are touched by mellow snouts
Blinds move fingers to get opened
They have two shimmering tongues
Unevenly ironed outfit
And hair pulled by jagged comb

Stairs they creak under the water
Sirens whistle about the woes
With the useless conversation
Echo settled in the well
There’s the loudest happy birthday
Sang by mouthless artisan

Slept a short line on the palmtop
I should own a longer life
Falling in the row of divers
Traces of some woolly paws
There's a window on the park bench
Sink below the tained hands

I've never believed in landscapes
Of buried nests in golden sands
Now we’re sleeping on the ceiling
Stars slip out of Orion's sword
And then deep inside your pocket
There's a smell of cinnamon