Nika

The wind blows cool breath, across our defences, no one cares about caress, it fades in lighted cellars, what cast as we send, flowers to the mad jealous, bad ass drunks who jar us, encourage shy friends, like miners to a gold rush, across our coffin lands, nothing is sensitive, to their brutal stance, will anyone want us, dressed to offend, their moral advances, to carry by naked thread, our indebtedness. to the inventive West, who will assess us.