And I will hear you
without noise,
in the yawn of night
when I will open
my wound!

Burning in the
intensity of time's blood
I will not touch
you in my dreams.

A fakir wants to leave his skin on the
rocks in sun to become
parchment, so that you can
write your name on it.

And my vacant eyes
in summer night, will search
the legend of undying
grace, in the wasteland
of life.