Poetry

Beyond the moon
spirit, I will wait for the
holocaust to disappear.

Spruced up stones were
becoming idols for pagans
of muse.

The singer is gone. Only
the fluted men will wear black,
till the moon arises.

Sitting near the feet
of saints, the fronds unroll the
untidy sins, as a homage to sun.

The vigilance increases.
Nobody will write one's name
on the growing trees of palms.

There would be no
preface, when the violence
starts without lips.