sometimes we would have dreamed ourselves a chalk drawing smiling on the blunt pavement,
a map, a lucky number,
a hidden way like an anatomy of sadness in which,
in obscure cadences, an indigo sky would have tattooed us with light

we are growing old, in embracement stories dust would settle
thick, harsh, silent and unwanted clouds come, like a useless wound, to pull the curtain folds over the arches of shoulders, over hopes, over drawings

and the thought with too many shadows, and the longing tired of myself
places me in a sort of tomb shade and between eyelids parenthesis
the gaze would search a kind of an answer to "why"
it is getting dark early
in November