Late

the cradle of whispers shares an enchanted poem,
rocking within his wooden palms the absurd laughter of a child,
with opaque eyes, burying underneath indolent shades
the mourning alchemy of a prolific smile...so wild...

he didn't use to smoke a day like cigarettes of ashes,
then smother the echos of a crinkle with a joke of faith,
that gently atrophyes the senses with it's bittersweetness,
but now he hums a requiem...the clock shows it is late.



The Cranberries - When You`re Gone
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