Into the Hollow

The cold days of my summer pass with the notes of a tambourine.
There I found the leaves of your eyes fall
Like a sinking ship with half-written stories.
To know where the last days of a storm lie,
I must stand where the evening builds its home.
But my home is lost when I tried to find one.

Far into the depths of a meandering river,
The wind speaks with the voice of a rock,
To emancipate the red riding hoods from becoming a story.
Far into the depths of all the raging fires,
Grow a fountain of darkness.

Like the smoke rising out of the cup,
Where you try to hold the dreams from falling apart,
I see a lighthouse, gliding into the desert
And invoking the sea with its fingers.