Lucid Dreams

In a little while, you'll emerge from the river,
The world of dreams gets gradually washed,
The thread of routine snaps,
and the scent of autumn spreads,
I wander, searching for the festival of seeds.

Neither light nor darkness, just a stoic stillness,
in transformations, the city's teeth and nails encircle,
all easels, all brushes blend
with faces and masks,
standing in the trough of solitude, and frost
I only think of you, that night, that dawn.