A thousand days have passed,

A million hours are done,

Rocks under have softened,

But you’re still to come,

Eaten by the worms,

My feet still stick to this bog,

To kiss whose mud,

I ransacked my hearth,

Where, just, the woods burnt.

Now howls of occult,

My kinsfolk dispense,

I am not possessed,

Would you throw an ephemeral look,

And cure me of my dread;

Of getting under,

Like a stone cold- untouched,

Stumbled upon then snubbed?

Neither touch nor warmth,

Does my tired skin long,

A look of my ugly face,

For a moment,

Would you endure?

Why?

Because I still stick,

Like a thirsty leech,

Old and weak.

To your bloodless lips,

Knowing that,

A hundred wishes have washed,

A thousand hopes are done,

A million dreams have dried,

Like a resin in the sun.