The blue rivers of my veins
The trace of blades on yours
You don't hang anything on the wind's skin
What's a Sunday to the ocean?
Under the worn-down city light
On my blue skin the night rolls by
Scrape my lips on weekends
The blue rivers of my veins
Time's trace on yours
like a match burnt out by the future
As far as the red lights burn
Outside it's clean, there's nothing moving
You dream of dust whiter than the sky
To detach the shadow beneath your soles