What do I do with the words?
They hurt, they flourish without thoughts,
destroying the civilities.
The sky cannot hold the conflict.
The strange friction of the image blurs the colors.
Love has become a cauldron.
A tough question tries to penetrate in my skin.
I come out of my body,
peeling off the conflicts from the timeless silence.
The voices of doom hang on the trees.
Somewhere the tears turn into watermark.
Not afraid of afterlife
I am ready from death to death.
Another autumn will take away all my greens, water & grace.
But primordial smile has a history of matching a face, with the dead.
