a poet in front of cybercafe’s computer
spreading legs, stretching muscles
desperately trying to regain his youth
his lost kisses, his absence of memories,
his twilight-colored eyes,
his drums inside his heart
wind passes in vain
can’t take away anything from him,
the poet in front of cybercafe’s computer
since he’s surendered his possessions
to the god of words, the lord of poetry
he used to seek between curly pubic hair
yet, now he–the poet in front
of cybercafe’s computer–is wondering
if the goddess of quietude shall embrace him
into her warming arms again, while her soft breasts
pillow his weary head, while her lips whisper
a couple of soft kisses
he, the poet in front of cybercafe’s computer
is wondering if night will forever young
till when suddenly he is awaken
by a phone ring
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