We are hot within the spirits
You leave your divine impressions
In the faces of the flowers
That insanity withers and twists
Into a sickly yellow dream
We find ourselves in
Our evening has died
Totally sensuous beneath the mendacity
You dig our graves over and over again
Intense
Greying and silent
Fading slowly
An empty address book
In whose eyes
The face in your mirror
leaves it home
to find road-signs