from the balconies

From the balconies
they threw at us
flowers made of flesh and blood,
but our blood,
faded away like a throusand falls
and the skin,
with even colder razors,
withered,
embracing the lowest of lows
we did not know were in us.

In the threshold of our souls
has always lived a king,
in the shadow,
whose name is never spoken.

His breath can be noticed,
only one in a thousand dawns
in a slightly troubled awakening.

Usually on the head.
Softly.
Like a loving father.

With the blood of flowers
on our faces,
we paraded away,
among the projects of buildings
to our further glory.

I never saw them again.
Now, it's told,
they blow cold in the tundra.