cigarette smoke, scorching sun,
burning leaves, flaming wind,
nothing heals her more than
the lightness of her hairs.
Graffittis, murals, paintings, sculptures,
hunderds of clouds telling stories,
of pain, love, loss, and death,
this all world fades away when
she faces the camera.
Each puff, each song, is a train,
that goes to streets of senselessness,
that goes to streets of senselessness,
but she rejects seriousness of this situation ,
as if she had a choice - but she hasn't,
as if she had a choice - but she hasn't,
she lives in the scarf
which flew through the wind
to grace her existence.
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