The lost chapel

In the lost chapel. The fairies and the witches dance naked. Spit in the air, defy hell. Pull the evil to cards. Make some fate their charter. Where it is written. That so will be their madness. Playing with future. Of the hooked fingers. At nights, the time which lasts. Blow the wind in tops. Scattering over abysses. Recovering the potbellied plains. Protect the souls which suffer. Calm their sournesses, heady smell. Of sulfur. Which gets drunk. Always and for ever. A night in the lost chapel complains an opera singer. In front of a stony orchestra. The spiders which soar along ivies. A cloud, a mirage, a subtlety. The heart which bangs. The wolves which growl out. The crowd which rocks, plays up, stumbles. A party where nothing is forbidden. The dogs which hunt their fleas, peel. The same hour so in the infinity. The sleepy rats. In the cake of the witches and the fairies. A little of tenderness. At the heart of our clumsiness. You and I deformed. In a world without border. Sad and sad. Our dreams which fall asleep. The waves of our delights go and come. Slowly, irresistibly. In our lost chapel. The fairies and the witches dance naked. Spit in the air, defy hell. There is our den. Invisible, irreversible.