Children of the Past (Balkan/Romani)

I do not wish my lazy mind to fly, from writhing hurricanes upon the sea. No pretty ends, my impulse was to slumber, to also feel the feeling of my fate. The groaning city only sleeps when rain falls, it tucks its head beneath its wing at night. There are no lanterns burning in its belly, the colors of the future are its blood. A darkest breeze surrounds the pretty faces, the conjurers they beg to bless the day, and pilgrims on their bellies slither Eastward, their burning minds the Universe ignores. No cry of time, no thoughts of sighing presence, all moments bastard children of the past. The green hearts are assaulted by the crowding. No sunsets for the prisoners of ash. no sunsets for the prisoners of ash, no sunsets for the prisoners of ash no sunsets for the prisoners, of ash.