Road Belongs to the Black Cuckoo
This road belongs to the black cuckoo.
Trees have fallen to ashes.
Sand is pitch black.
Crow black jungle is deserted.
Lips are telling the stories of stallions.
Inner eye is lost in the darkness of the caves of dread.
The whirlwind of body looks like black dusk.
This age does not belong to
flavored rosy lips,
fresh flowers and
the tipsy show fixed in the frames of air