par-dessus la poussière

what was lost is now being retrieved 

from the folds of the heavy stage curtain -

in dreams and in sand storms everything is possible;

we all have ghosts - they cling to us like shadows

under the black winter sun.

the body suffers whatever hell the mind spins -

it often burns to ashes.


don’t blame us, mother night:

we’re only trying to be in the limelight 

and do our best to not forget our lines - 

this is how we resist becoming dust.


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