After the puppet show, the nest was calling.
Indeed, the leaves held the slanted light
expanding the shade snared on branches,
of dancing ash, of almond eyes.
Why the hangman was waiting for the echo?
The river was calling.
Was this the inheritance of less talent of pugmarks,
which strayed into the city of abused words?
The book was calling?
After birth there was no death of my rhyme.
The flesh has gone,
only the burning bones are lying on bed of roses.
