Playing blackjack on the deck.

This is the time

when roads become deserts

with no oasis and no shelter

to cover from the night and the enless rain.

When decks

have no ship to sale on,

a day is an year,

a rose is always covered with thorns.

No sun in the sky,

no ink in any pen,

no voice in my throat.

No money in the bag,

no whiskey in any jar.

Still, this is the time

when every mirror has your reflection

every word is your name,

and I have an anchor

so if I can't write,

talk,

or go to you

I'll settle down and wait for you here.