The man sits. Black and white, life slips away. His owned smile is now amongst the lost souls. He feels, but he does not. Shakes, the hand is shaking on his leg. Right hand, left leg. His skin screams the mute mass of a preacher with no preach left to pray. God is there. He sits. No crown of kings or dress of barons. Look. Look closer, but go further. Lord and man, in the same tired room. Sheets on a bed full of words that taste like blood but smells like sweat. No body died in the room, nobody died. The man is aware of the fear, of the love, of the rage he feels towards the God. He believes to not believe. His cage has no boundaries. The man sits. In colours, death slips inside of the room. No wine left. No one left. Just a paper, just a pen, just a deal to make. To not die, to not live. Poets will live again through the cracks of the wall of memories. They will take the man and the God and they will make them rhyme. Altogether, man and God. Altogether, they will burn. God has a face, a face of a woman with golden hair and pale flesh. In the eyes the melting of many souls wanders into the room upon the bed, the sheets, the words, the man, the black and the white. But the skin pulses, on two crude words: help me. Feel, now. Feel, man. Feel, God. Feel, life. Feel, death. Here my soul has been given to one and only lord: music is his blood, poetry is his flesh. And we will love again. And he will love again. And poets will love again. Obey, to the wind of the East. Let the woman wash your clothes through the dying rivers. Leave the wolves howling and the walls falling. Climb no mountain, sink no hole, drink no fountains water, sing no song. The man sits, and with him sits his God. They look at each other, between the staring and the fearful tears. They love each other, he hates both of them. Death slips his throat, life slips away. No wine left, no one left. The poem rises, the shadow faded.
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