The black shroud falls
On this wasteland of a city.
The dark whisper of the wind reverberates
From Hades' black garden to the top of the sticks.
Flat faces press against cold transparences,
The smell of curiosity is asphyxiating.
There is nothing here,
Not even a pebble or a stone
That remembers conscious breath.
And flightless wings have given up.
Two black souls linger for a minute
Or so on the corner
Then vanish like love.
They left no trace of presence.
The only sound is that of silence
And on this black stretch
The whites and blacks play
Their haunting notes.
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