I fumble for my matches out there in the frosty winter
It's 11 degrees and 4 in the night
The angel of the dawn is already there
Sighing longingly and sitting on a ledge

I go sit beside him and he laughs a little and lits up the holy flame
That's all what its' good for now anyways lighting cigarettes and turning minds to ash

He tells me a story or two
Stories about failed lovers, cracks in the great wall of China and where the sea falls over the world

The regal lillies cry out their scent to give solace to his irreparably bittered soul
But under the constant erosion of a bygone millenia
He has long learnt to focus on the smell of shit and earth from where they grow instead

He then takes a drag, a drag so deep it sucked all the coal factories of this world dry
And ran his fingers through my face, fingers burning as hot as the sun and yellowed by nicotine
Just as he was about to tell me the secret recipe

As to how love makes every trash bag capable of writing poetry and song?
How it's blindness has made man blind to all but hope and immune to scorn?
How the world rotates on the tips of her delicate fingers?

The call to the morning pollutes the sky
He laughs, a bitter crooked laugh and lits up my cigarette one last time
And illuminates the sky orange waking it from its slumber of deep blue
The sparrows and the bluebirds all sang to greet  the day fresh and newborn
Yet I sighed and looked longingly over the ledge
Feeling as though I wore the same soiled clothes after a shower 
And I saw, from Tokyo to Egypt and Israel to Mecca
People sighing and putting out their cigarettes, some gazing longingly and some jumping from these same cursed timeless ledges