Before the voices of nightly silence weak and hijack routine statistics of the day,

Oaths, shots, screams, and noises,

There and then.

The rays will wither.

Where the endless steppes and aimless winters meet on the horizon,

Landless and waterless poets wilt under the lines in which light streams from luminous bodies.

Taking place in private rooms, the prose of the forgotten plumes in a heat cycle,

Saying everything with a startling abruptness.

A canopy covering a portion of the wall.

It is a bliss to exist within day and night formation,

In the blind swarm of words and a peace of mind.

However,

It is a distant dream.