Lights on old dirt-roads
covered by grimy asphalts
used for thousands of years.
Yellowed curtains behind panes
sometimes colourful, trimmed.
Metallic beds with hands and legs
painted ochre at their joints.
Carrefours of rooms with stains
and holes in our super-civilisation.
Plastic tablecloths for one use
like meaningless soap-operas
with pink flashy reflections
for our optical field to be disorientated.

And we are hidden
so as not to become perceptible
from their ageing before their time,
figures of our indisposition.
It is impossible to be delighted
by a flame of energy
because there is nothing to be discovered
given that we raised ourselves
a small whispering
to be hidden once again
laying beside ill prospects.