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

With the useless conversation

Echo settled in the well

There’s the loudest happy birthday

Sang by mouthless artisan

Slept a short line on the palmtop

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