... Alarm clock and throws you into the void of emptiness, the vanity of vanities...
This city of sleep — only concrete, and glass,
aluminum and stone, it has no pulse.
In it rotting away millions of losses, of gains, illusions, gifts, gain...
He breathes and moans and moves — it is non-living.
He lies, the void under the rags to reveal.
He calls to inhale petrol fumes, damp foliage.
He is not Holy one iota, he is a cynic and a ernika, and he's all yours
tart March morning, when, breaking through the siege blizzards
the city suddenly remembers that there are warm, and the South.
One has only to breathe it, to remember, to see — and finished.
Time sparingly so not to bargain another day.
The city is dead as the time, no wonder they are related.
This is the realm of cemeteries, crypts, tombs, and you're alive.
This ice will melt words, and cries, and tears, and even howl...
... And is there a time clock watchdog.