these eyes pass over you like a satellite, 
spying from some distance the contours of your world 
and in its haste to blink and pass are blurred the consequence of our herd
with antidotes and godly truth,  
with weapons of our amnesia and our youth, 
we orbit walls of soothing prayers
these passing days are not filled with love,  neither with passion for our aftermath nor with the sensations of the blind
Above these seas of oil and lust, trails of unimagined smoke and dust fill our lenses with a god or will 
which we no longer trust to catch us where we lie.

25/1/03