Writing a poem
under the moon
Contemplating
on a wooden chair
The silky curtains
spread their wings.

I hear a voice
your call at night
echoing on walls
I leave the ink
and run down
over the meadows
over the fields
and the moon
lightens my path.

The woods is dark
but does not halt
my rush toward you
I run for a while
I run for years.

In your room
is a coffin inside
on top of it are flowers
a bouquet of liliac lilies
I don't hear your voice
anymore. It is dark.
I sit by there for years.

It took centuries
to reach you
and seconds
to love you.
The moon on the hill
is standing still.