We sit in a dusky park of lost souls and free souls in the 4am smoke,
I lay myself back and watch the obscure tree branches dancing over my head.
There is a poet and his saxophone,
there is the fiddler on the roof,
and there is smoke, everywhere smoke.
My whole life is like a strange dream, I can no longer tell when I'm awake and when I'm sleeping.
Pink moon,
we sit there until it's early instead of late,
the air is so thick that it's not clear if his eyes are closed or if they are deeply fixed on mine.
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