wasn't music and now the river didn't let him sleep. The city flowed like time when you're old. The rocking chair was creaking and he saw himself whistling. A glass of singlemalt on his hand.
Time had passed without a sound. The sun burns again, like a messiah, but its light isn't felt. Instead, the white blanket of sorrow, the winter of the bard's discontent. Now the roads are without leaves and naked branches pierce the sky.
A hay(na)ku chapbook.