The roses of this ocean are only made of impoverished salt, a throat at risk, water shattered nevertheless and awe-inspiring birds - and there is nothing save the night met with the day, and the day met with a refuge, a hoof, silence.

The wind grows in silence
with his one leaf and his battered flower,
with the sand which owns only touch and silence -
it is nothing,
it is a shade,
the track of an imagined horse,
it is nothing unless it be a wave time has received
since all waves go towards the cold eyes
of time glaring under the ocean.

Now his eyes have died of dead water and doves,
they are two needle holes whose width is bitterness,
where the bloody-mawed fish enter in,
whales in search of emeralds,
skeleton of pale horsemen disintegrating
in the slow sea-flower's arms and furthermore
various colonies of poisonous myrtle,
lone hands,
arrows,
mother-of pearl revolvers,
scrabbling interminably over his cheeks
and devouring his eyes of refugees salt.

Money, money, money...
Dreams is expensive.

It is a lonely planet. 
I have already spoken of that, 
so desolate
where the earth is brim-full of
ocean and money sharks.
And there is no one - only tracks of people asking
for you money.
No one save the wind, no one save the refugees without
getting pay-back.
So no one likes you only your few Access. 
No one.