A night in Budapest

There is suits it and comes it. From one evening which is shelled on the beam of a new following day. A tram in the night of Budapest. Some passengers, the walkers who remain. To look at passing a shade. To listen to the rattling noise which thunders. The time of a twilight which sinks. In the arms of the round moon. With the reflections bathing in the Danube. She only dances.  She staggers. Equipped with its nasty face. Its memories locked up in the tram. Of a loose living. Drawn on the web long night. There is suits it and comes it. Of this past that nothing any more retains. Just the pain to be afraid. To forget the trace of it. This short period which is erased. Leaving the giant scar. Rails in the open skin. With the vacuum to project itself. Towards infinite to quiver about it. Nothing to hang up again itself. To Bleach to fade about it. Awaking the insane ones. Plunging in mud. The so wise image. Of the moon embarked in a bad tram. Carrying one night of moistness. On the paving stone of Budapest. To taste languor. From one evening celestial. Where a time is stretched. Without shiver, reason. If, slowly. What slips by between the fingers. Colors of silk. Woven with the tears of stars. Remain only you and me., a deserted coffee, silence, a fabric. Given Up. By one night without the moon gotten into the last tram.