For the dream slaves
the incense has become a moon
for the alchemic effect
of tear’s stain in erotic war.
Ask a mooner,
will he bring her to bed
for a song
to measure the cantus
between flight of strings
in midnight?
The small bruises of stars
were playing under the lemon tree
in sinking clouds.
You must know
the richness of poverty at night.
This was the theme to play,
it was enough to have walked
on golden leaves of November,
while I was collecting
the false truths of life.
