a bunch of red stuff, pretending to be delicious

when marching at you with full force,
you have to be at full force to resist them

it's behind us now, the parade I'm saying

and all is left is . . .

the imprint of a season on the body of nature

not too long before the city falls into sleep

it's again, with all its colorful force

at the end of the bright tunnel

a city all painted with art and passion

what we see, what is seen, what . . .