Machinarium

There's a world between the fires Knives are touched by mellow snouts Blinds move fingers to get opened They have two shimmering tongues Unevenly ironed outfit And hair pulled by jagged comb Stairs they creak under the water Sirens whistle about the woes Witg the useless conversation Echo settled in the well There's the loudest happy birthday Sang by mouthless artisan Slept a short line on the palm top I should own a longer life Falling in the row of divers Traces of some woolly paws There's a window on the park bench Sink below the tained hands I've never believed in landscapes Of buried nests in golden sands Now we're sleeping on the ceiling Stars slip out of Orion's sword And then deep inside your pocket There's a smell of cinnamon