Meine ehre heisst treue
The target is the memories, and the plan is to forget;
I walk the lines to crawl the forests in my head.
The jaw hold tough, the fingers crumble, spread
In space of pocket.

Yellow bricks like watermelons, stories of the street,
The dreams and talks, the life of walking meat.
So small and big, so cold and hot, so bittersweet
In size of pocket.

Cities of shadows, ghosts, or thoughts, or guesses.
As frequently told, as frequently asked, like messes
Of those forbidden cults in asian jungle temples.
God's beloved pockets.

I may not favour you, my Lord, with messages of love,
Of worlds you conquer, of words so decent, of sword so rough,
But I have brought to you the songs of universe's mouth
In my old pocket.