I have lived my poems.
The truth walks between knowledge
and existence. In split -second comes moon.

It filters the metaphysics
What pain I have, not asked for it.
The mud stream moves on to ****.

What my love was, to
do any sin. Make a red comet to
burn away my wax palace.

Pain of the day. I hurt
myself. You pretend. At first I slip.
Then the snowdrop bends me.

I will not break in
the sounds of love. You listen to the
fall of a vagabond moon in water.

The starved leaves whistle.
Will you talk with the wind? You hear
the voices of the body in hollow land?

Who ups the ante,
if you don't exist to catch the song
of sorrow to become immortal.

For a thousand years, the
iris waits for the light to dig and
redress the memory of gone spring.

The deaf and dumb leads
the voices coming from the active volcano
where the sparks are throwing lava.

What else you will
give me, after you shot down a
parrot, eating a pomegranate.

I am rewriting the
pain of the unheard birth of a
promise to die again.

It was a visual ******
of the signatures to build a
mausoleum of a disappeared deity.

A candle burns in the
eyes. It is my quivering poem. A broken
sun. Will give you a gift of the moon.

Covered with flames. You
will become a comet. Ice, rocks, dust and
the water. You will weep without tears.

Are you everything? Blue
berries are blooming. I converse with
flowers of wilting roses.

These are black days
in purple cubes. My intimate poems
were still nascent, accounted for.

You become Mimosa pudica
in the cusp of liberty. You have emptied
yourself by sending god to other religions.

Tell you, I may forget me,
but will not forgive me. When I left my coat,
our ancestors were already gone unspoken.

The words are flying
away, enigmatically. There was a
family of god. Is the end drawing near?

Half- way you are talking
about sequences. Oceans are on fire.
A weak voice cries. I don't want to die

Who will call from the future?
The night will dance for the solar eclipse.
Don't touch me. I will not melt.