Under our blue-green satisfaction
tightened smoothly by the beautiful day
a stream drives us into the mountain

In wide tunnel streets we glide
through the black light past
stalacmummies and stalagdaddies and

echoes of processions, a Siren
is barefooted singing for rain, clearly
the drops fall from her mouth

Ahead, musicians celebrate the seized time
For them each day is a treat
in the caves of the shadows

where there are no seasons, no toilets
where no one is naked, no one caressed
and no one has access

to the hidden chambers
of clotted pain, the cavities of heavens
full of stars in the belly of the mountain

without babies, guarded by brigades
of bats, our hearts are pounding
like volcanoes through the galleries

because something is trembling itself
maybe even free to the sun -
but it blows over