A shadow that passes,

Passes without a mournful glimmer,

Passes the hang-outs without glimpse,

Without a glance,

Without the hang-outs consent and guidance.

And security, the shadow falls.

Faded vision at the top of the branch,

Faded and mingling with the shadow,

Not seen, Recognise by few.

A few in a sequel,

A sequel of friendly morning grace.

Hello. Morning.

Water spills dirty sin,

The streets that have no name,

And no shadows.

And no morning grace.

And no security.

And no sequel.

Darker and deeper the shadow that

Is directed by the scarce means of light.

No matter how hard it tries,

It isn’t recognised still,

And falls behind once again.

And it stays. Regardless.