At night, when all is quiet, when all is still and every spirit lies where it should, simple sounds of the city can be heard. Every squeak from every loose hanging street sign sings. All the papers and rubbish shake and spin with the whistling wind between alleys.
It is almost magical, to stand and watch as traffic lights of this long west street turn green, red, orange and green again. Eyes stare through a window of a house with no yard nor grass, just a balcony on the 4th floor. With each star in the sky a wishful prayer can be heard.
If I could open my words wider, like a woman spreading her legs to become a mother, I could kill death. I would fool everybody and say "May the dead be raised and may we celebrate!" Celebrate a time which has been lost. Let death be the door to birth.
Let nothing stop this process as I die, only to scream in terror as I enter a new world. My fears won't be heard and my thoughts won't be written down. My journey will be in vain as I grow up forgetting my identity. But may this night, this magical night, may it be my ally and caress me to sleep. May songs be hymns burying me so deep.