We can fuck each other and cry like men
  while cities lie in ruins, bombarded
by airplanes, driven by unknown machines,
 we can fuck ourselves across the border
  to hide within tears in luxurious tenderness

These clouds of sadness are real, the forests
                      lush as paintings of cunts
  but our minds yearn more, but sadly our mother
passed away while our father was left to fend
                       for himself in the eye of the storm

                  our mother she is buried in the crypt
                  with stagnant orchids,
                  with our lyre we press plastic chords
                  on her withered lips
           yet she no longer listens to the things we bring,

           she no longer raises her hand to caress
                                                our priceless perfection
           she lets her hand rather rest as bone on
                                                            blank shadows

          and how she smells of our sweet piss
                  which we pour
                  rancid from porceline vases on her
                                                   immortal face!

         the maps tell how there are stranger cities
                                       waiting yet in her body
                        but we do not dare excavate
                                               into her abysses,

                              weeping at the darkness

                              weeping for the smell of gold, of flowers.