Critical, creative and digital writingEcriture critique, créative et numérique

 ? 𝞪/A


He promenades, glancing left, then right, His shadow projecting on the pavement, A clone of his inner self engraving on cement, He wonders, as he wanders, about the light… It's not a galaxy, nor a supernova, The suns of the city, magic bulbs, That's what produces such an aura. 'Hey you!' one of them shouts. No trust. He wakes up, numbed, breathing his own blood. The memory is gone, evaporated, or leaked. What's that pain in my lungs? A flood, My life spilling out of my body… All is bleak. They cry, all of them… I had never thought I'd see them, mourning my corpse on the concrete… From above, as a new city light, I soar, Contemplating the man's own forest… Such a treat!