It is time, no more
cashmere, no silk, soft
furs and vanilla sheets

not boiling my blood
in a waterfall with a thousand
fingers of coldfire on my skin

but real kisses under sweet
buzzing lime blossoms
behind waving curtains

disappearing together
in a boundless body
that no longer bleeds

of desire
giving birth to a child
that smells of happiness

Sonnet 3

The night wind blows the breeze ever so slowly
In a dance of daggers the blade held so stealthy
Beyond the meadows sparks come and go
Death wraps them intends to go through and through

The blade held by his beloved now comes closer
To end what started in ancient lore but becomes clearer
Why must they suffer? why must they cry?
Why must they swing and why one must die?

Madness, indeed that they stand in this division
Fighting for someone else's dreams and religion
As one stayed standing and one lay flat
By their blood and tears we ask where your peace is at?

Is there a soul which would permit a sacrifice so cold?
Or is/are your thoughts your fire untold?