The clock strikes three,
a feeble beep in the blaring silence...

Every morning,
just before dawn...

Coming in through the window,
the darkness illuminates the room...

There,
in the heap...

I am a lonely grain of sand,
stuck in two goblets of glass...

It was a blank face,
a symbol of serenity and calm...

A single silent violin
shimmering on that breezy night...

Wandering again in this paradise of pain,
howling again,crying in vain...

In that dark alley,
when I called out...

He woke me up in the morning,
cutting his hand on the broken glass...

The streets were deserted,
the sun was sucking my soul...

When I see that photograph,
I see a genuine smile...