Reaching...Endlessly...

I won't sing passions and voids, because a voice I have not.

My wings are not torn, because wings I never had.

Neither bird nor truly statue...will you let your dough waste away under the mechanical sun?

The wriggling pigeons of the heart alter their feathers like a moonless tide, sometimes are tinged with amber or red joy, from pale fluorine to the softness of a dream.
But the face stands unchanged : in the streets, on a bench or a car, everywhere eyes see the Being's face - the undulating being whose pigeon is veiled.
Haze wanders at the tips of his fingers ; and despite all in the streets, on the bench or a car he is recognized.
"Oh tell me stranger, why do you see me ? But friend, how can you know that I am as you percieve?
Yes you, tell yes why do you see me?"

Oh puppets dressed in opaque, velvety gowns, your head framed by veils like those of brides...this grid of gauze, light halo...
Puppets, humans my fellows, will I have to marry you to touch your heart and unveil this mist between us?