Poetry

When, 
the scream ends, you start 
digging the shadows of 
red berries. 
 
The sky, 
scoops the children of rape, 
waiting for 
the rains. 
 
The tiger beetle, 
will run after the winged prey 
of first love. 
 
Would you like to taste 
the moon in the dark bowl 
of malicious night? 
 
Reading about the spell 
of the roses, I went to a 
Sufi, for an epitaph.