the fear
has it's own place
on our foreheads.

behind a badly patched "yes"
laid the bravery of non-believing,
the pleasure of the hunt
and the desire to step over
every new-born snow.

the sins
all seven of them
have left their seeds,
all good intentions are lost
on the way to hell.

we're saving for the long cold winters
the illusion of an island.
we're paying our debts
in expired minutes
with zero interest.

silence
is a superstition
the question
has no shadow

we are only speaking for the dead.