Poetry

Turnover my secret past
I have to dig up my future
In the hour of crumbling walls and dark
clouds.

Pale moon becomes a beacon
in another version of solitude
where nobody speaks of sores and premature
death.

I stay away from twinkling stars,
from the blossoms of traveling night
and winds which are moving towards the
sky.

Sullied words will go for a conspiracy
making a ghost of my garden
where seeds are sprouting.