?Yes, it was the 1980’s. The Cowboy Junkies were singing. More precisely, this lady, So one walked the streets of Cape Town. Sometimes Paris, Venetia too. Shut up Toledo. Shut up Cervantes. Please, let me cry on my own. Yes, I passed Ben Dekker in the wallow too. Yes, you walked your grey shoes that matched your shamed grey suit like some cheap handclapping. Yes, your soul was not, no, were crying, for existence to present proof of substance. Yes, it was, remained, wishful thinking.

So the Cowboy Junkies sang. So I walked. Through the streets of Cape Town. So, I did not meet her there. Though, though, she was there. Missed her on the streets. I think the gods were protecting her. But, what about me? I guess, it was already to late for me. A forfeited existence. And then, eventually when we met in front of a framed art work, the gods were already smiling their silent smirk.

They had already erected the barracks of unsurpassable borders. So be it you gods. But you will not, will not let me forget. A hand with fingers, a skin of a tender face, eyes that teared centuries. A soul that is still soaring for the beyond. No, it is unforgettable. Go to hell, you bordered gods.

She is the rose of my smitten midnight.