But have not, at least, sunken to nowhere.
Poor souls, young and free
wallow in the darkness.
The last bottle is emptied.
The spirit runs where blood should be.
The world whirls around unstoppably.
Unknown to each other were he and she.
But stares, like needle, prick so deeply—
and inside, blood gushes forth so rapidly—
the nearest hiding is the place to be.
The moans and groans
with every thrust
seem to them a melody.
Their pulsating and sweating bodies
go with the rhythm
till morning comes,
when stars have gone to another place,
there, where more poor souls rejoice,
she cries in guilt and pain.
Ariel C. Lalisan
