Poetry

The wind was black 
and I wanted to make an eye contact 
with the unknown. 
Following the stars 
in midnight- 
 
there was something called 
desire, in clean moon, 
untying the knots- 
in breast. The truth 
was not in kernel, 
 
it was in the flowing veins 
of the leaves; sun, trapped 
in green carbon. The- 
wordless poem dousing 
the fire between the cinders. 
 
The cosmic door opens, shuts. 
The bird song covers your tracks.