When you *****, I
write a poem. I talk to you
even in your absentia.

When I held your hand,
you were not there and you went
on talking about your love for me.

Life has many faces.
Dashes and dots. You run after the moon
and light the candles in line.

You are complex,
I am easy. Some memories speak.
I started reading Gita again.

There was sorrow in
the suffering of a wild king,
he was tortured. The queen dies in sleep.

Will you preserve
the difference between animal and man
but togetherness wins.

The itch persists. I
want to stay at-large to protect
myself in the infant sensuality.

I remember my poverty
daily to become rich. Why did you
remove your wounds?

Disturbingly, femininity comes
to the forefront. The moon undresses
to show the stigmas, doing nothing.

The words are dancing.
Ego changes many faces, but
no shadow follows, where you go.

This happens love
becomes a panic. I cannot touch you.
Why have I lost my pen?

Capricious jasmines of shades
smile. You are me, and I am you.
Where the love lives, static pain moves.

It was not an orb
processing a moon. A spider measures
the length of the distant fly,

I have asked nothing.
The torch wants a pure vision.
Death will not come easy.

It is absurd to watch
the rose garden. The wolves
have destroyed the beauty of god man.

Not fragile, I always
move forward. Theologically, I
will prove who looks behind me.

I remember you. The
morning is still dark. The dust still
covers our peers in the storm.

Rilke, how did you
find the power of will? I do not
wish to write the holocaust again.

You want to make the
pain happy? Like Gestapo you had
picked me. My half-poem becomes the antimatter.

Where has the sensuality gone
in the rose garden? Who was the changer?
What now honeybees are coming?

Between right and wrong
lives our god. Did you ever adored him
to change your gender?