You swirl around
my poems to enter old nest.
I do not know how to pray.

I will backtrack
to find my footprints in
your glistening eyes.

To admire the purity
of flame, I taste red berries
of firethorn. You recite
a sacred hymn.

No name was needed
for unknown agony of your mind.
Neither you will muse
nor I will write.

Every December snow
becomes a shroud.