Melancholy

Always the disease of time,

colours with swirling hues

and of dark melancholy

the shadows glimpsed through the window,

while the grey swarm of autumn flows vividly by.

They are debt collectors with death

and make no discounts,

a life for a thrill

or for a strong disappointment.

One deceives the wait with complacent indifference,

accompanied by jazz symphonies,

memories of old loves never dormant

and regrets of a warrior of the rising sun,

with his dogtags greased with whale blubber.

I no longer remember the siren song,

the insulting hubbub of losers

and the passing of time

in the contests between immature egos.

I do, however, remember the sweetish scent of must

and the fruity scent of ruby red.

I also well remember the unusual

and soon familiar scent of cannabis,

the taking of the sky

and the ten thousand decomposed souls

and impatient.

One more time,

yet another occasion