In utter darkness,

around it all;

above all times,

the bluebirds are chanting the same old songs.

The dragging days;

the drunken dawns.

I witnessed the race of the alarm clock

with the secret nights;

then begged for nothing but the tricks of the light,

waiting for the red rose to reveal.

I sensed the truth of your lips.

Infinite.

Quiet.

A thousand sips of 1997,

not event the slightest glance,

will turn us back to last December.

S