It’s late evening when I run, 
alongside the canal there’s a local cemetery
graves protrude so close to the waters 
that the placid surface 
mirrors their headstones,
families rejoice under the moonlight 
on the other side of river Styx
some of the dead smile me back 
while soaking their feet from the bank,
I spot someone sitting uncomfortable on the wet grass 
forced to use sips of flat beer 
to grease the conversation with his peers,
among them an old folk
is listing things he misses most:
firstly, swimming naked
second, jumping on a bus to visit a friend (without announcing it)
and lastly, drying laundry in the fresh air
to purify it 

Spirits are made from the same essence of dreams 
leftovers of daylight
their voices are random pieces from a puzzle, 
listening is like exhuming fragments 
of a worthless vessel
but these echoing memories 
are all that’s left from people
otherwise it’s just 
corpses buried in the ground, right?