REVISED PURPOSES

As the leaves drift into themselves in the deserted forest, instead of the eternal, light, wind-driven festive dance of waves, they roll echoing noises collected in ourselves. They've been suffocating themselves with exhaust fumes, teenage thurkas, obscene grotesque obscenities. 

Broken careers, pipe dreams after heavy millions, sob to the beat of a missing death. And whoever now seeks to prosper by any means will be a tyrant of one mind, like the horde of accomplices in the traitors' dens. 

Death and passing, moreover, always impeccably clothe their mortals in old age - And while some may or may not see the transition between part and whole in tiny cogs, they drift till they can hold their own, the Adys leaves. 

Among the swaying branches of the twisted, honey-coloured lights, a single old-age stain of our rattling, shipwrecked life bends like a hesitant shadow, folds itself. Through the velvet of your heart your last moments have rolled, While your heart hangs in rusty wire, an uncertain ticker that may stop at any moment. 

In the midst of the serenities, a silent, protesting infinity waits... Your memories drift, too, while you keep bumping into them. The devotional, sacred motions of caresses have always been forbidden-taboo fruit for the likes of you: physical pain could only be for you if anyone tried to get to you. You can't want to be caught up in deliberate swirling depths yourself. Still on each other's backs drift on each other's tip to toe, the stunted leaves of the woods that no one may remember...