Talking of the character
and morality, a smoke
rises. To arms.

Butterflies, and
waterfalls. I stand between
the two to take a
look at the last clouds.

On the date palms
my future lives. The pinnate pair
rips apart the poems
of merciless summer.

Burning hands will-
pick up the dented heart.
No more blood was left
in the twisted veins.

Coming out of the woods,
I hand over my moons
to you, for a blue kiss.