midnight runners

the sun has withdrawn at its nadir  

it will not smear on our hieroglyphic;

let its tongues licking the earth bellow

revive in our veins chasing its fire,

the moon is a prophetical badge

that closes the clothes of the night

waiting for our interlacing fingers

to strip the heat from our stirred hairs,

the taste of the world outside

oozing from the holes in our throats

to the edges nailed in the mind screams

will sustain our muffled pipes for the dawn,

let the ghostly building be the silent choir

of watchful monuments left behind

to conduct our fleeting steeps on dreams

scaling the sounds of  forbidden warnings,

and nothing in this silence shall overtake us

as we close our bodies to the communion

that the stars sign for the sleeping streets

where we send tears to continue the race

that shall be restored with us in the prayer

of the melted golden coins of our crashed eyes.