There were messages in everything:
the smokescreen
we fabricated
the distance
we invented
the greetings
we manufactured
in moulds unsuitable
for dreams.
The messages, our real language
we learned so fast
to join the dots
even among the smoggy roads
holding a broken glass of wine
we wrote again the fainted signs
that time had hidden from our eyes.
But we are not blind, we are not senile
for dreams have broken
through the lines
and now we talk of red sunrise
and now we talk of victory.
Perpetual Residence 