The Return of the Hermetist

The scent of citrus trees immerses the rainy night.
The summer breeze gets lost
among the dark streets, in the clamour of the pubs,
and gets to meet the old stranger.
The times of pleasure will be in vain,
Chinese men will sell their pizza then.
You are waiting to recall the beginning
or the end.
Try to forget your fear
of where
your path led you
among renaissance sighs of narrow streets,
into the cradle of a foreign culture,

crowded with black children

Their words wear you out
their tongues disappear,
but you keep waiting,
though for what, you don’t know,
for the fate of us all
which will maybe be equal.
In the shade of our unconcealed apathy
we await as beggars for our freedom.

Forget your path if you can,
you will be left with only an aching heart
in the shattered light of your homeland,
where wire fences protect our acts.
An acid rain gnaws at the past, whose rocks
wear the shadows of a smile.
It falls onto the pavement of the street,
from there, you silently leave this time.

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