L'heure zénithale front de mer, balcon. Sarandë par 36°
In the stage, it is flying high, like a mild and dusty, salted-milk cry
From the hills, it grows and it's gross,
See this steaming smoking Hearth
It's moving there. There is a heavy cloud.
It is dancing, as a lonely crowd,
And the air is dark, strange and cold
The bird is falling to the ground
From the mountains, it's creeping down
Like an invisible guest - an unspeakable guess
A storm of fires rolling around
The bird is falling to the ground.
In this moment
Gently touching my face
While every other breathing soul
Remains as stones
Through the brushwalk of a curly blue inked space
She steps in aside
And I'm feeling the salty flavoured solar power
Flewing under her skin
As a boiling bone boy born burning and vanishing into the air
Her wings are shining lines.