Plastic ivy behind me,
Artificial ambiance to strike at ambivalence,
Brightly laughing at a fake marriage,
Happy couples dancing like menageries of habit.

Ripped canvas chandelier, dangling in orange hues,
Dusty, as if deliberately done,
Arabian in its architecture, iron skeleton of rings and chains;
A home once for a lost sparrow that narrowly escaped after ten days, out into a bigger world of boutique shops and bakeries.

Cherubin paintings, what have you seen?
Every night a different same scene,
Presiding ever silently, smiling just the same,
As a mummer mocking alcoholic sings that same refrain.

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