Deep inside the dark vault
amongst and beneath the crumbs of last Autumn
lies a dreaming human stump
as if he were deceased
as if he were faulted

over his tanned wrinkled skin
victim of winds and feasting dragonflies
rolls the residues of the last
thousand evenings' fogs
as if he had been dreaming

here with the drops of melting ice
circling his lips as the years slided by
perhaps conveying an inch of a thought
in the canyons of his torturous brains
on New Year's Eve, sometimes.

the muddy factory of souls that lies
underneath his legs and arms
for that while has worked him
with the tools nature provides
with the time it saw running.

Now as soon as the morning light
pierces through the misty heights of the Atlas mounts
finally the mandibles will cut and slice
and tear for the grinning to become
a house for a thousand souls.