Poetry

The animal thing inside: 
My half-brother, 
was unsettling me. 
 
Over the sunset I watch 
the drawing procession 
carrying the dead body of a tiger. 
 
The light is fading. The stripes 
were becoming a myth. The 
guest was ready to depart. 
 
I am holding the molten lava 
in an urn. In the black sky 
a satellite burns to undo the grief. 
 
There is no death, no stopping. 
A face pressed between the leaves 
of a book smiles. 
 
You come back to me in rains. 
I call you by cinders dancing 
in the mirror of whistling time.