Winter story

Out the empty hall people repair broken desires
I hear my calls for the street
but posters on the left-and-rights are crushing psychotherapists humanly certified
instead, circular trails into the lost homes hidden
which belong to the mournful hearts
through glasses colored
That night is strumming before eyes
I throw away harsh to the winds
"Begone, the condemned! Begone!"
the only traces of the called reminiscences
with the overarching sympathy and dependence
gone riding the final breath of my might
I fall to the embrace of the ground
Withered with the flowers bewildering
Along with this beautiful generation born in the name of hope
I have escaped from praise
left for this winter to complete another stone
To unsee an arrival
To unsee an arrival