your golden wings couldn’t resist the sun rays. you fell, and I didn’t see it: my eyes weren’t turned to the ocean. strangely, I didn’t resist the stiff(ened) pome myself, its hard flesh broke my teeth, and no previous advice was heard – one that could’ve made me have a second thought before the shameful bite. yet your bones rot on the bottom of the sea, despite every intention of yours, and no other generation will ever know the stories of your vain errands. despite every trial of ours, those years, short years, anesthetized, deaf and blind, didn’t really happen in the end.
