Floating in the air without direction
Released from the burning tar
Loosing sight and orientation
Of the black dove that flew too far
Untouched the ash keeps on burning
Phased by the baldes of light
Smoke-thick air in teh yearning
Soucked quickly in a fright
The bud remains,the whitness gone
Ashtray full, not long cleaned
Looked bright, easily shone
Like the teeth of French Queen
Holding now the heavy troubles
The Ashtray keeps still and waits
An obliged servant never blubbers
Holding still for the balt
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