i remember a snow as light as paper
walking on it lightly
fox in the storm of immaculateness
losing trace of hunters and hounds
somewhere the soul got corroded
something is missing...
it's the feel itself,
the sensation, the spark
footsteps sound empty
and nameless and shameless,
existence of a stroke of a brush,
somewhere in a book
. . .
the night comes to a close
music lays down to dream
winds rise to sweep
a patch of dust off your shoulder
and i'm off as well
