Fire on top of the previous fire
What else is there to burn?
torrential rains and endless streams of water
of life
to pull you to the very depths
of silence.
And if they say that the burnt one is not afraid of fire
and the wet one in the rain,
tremble
as if I feel my naked voice
to pierce the words, to try the syllables
to dress in lace of love
with a cross stitch of death.
Life is a chain of burnt forests
which is covered with mud by the downpours of a
forever a paid-off autumn.
Spring is constantly postponed
(whatever is given to life is lost)
naked in the summer, it sets itself on fire
and winter is a cruel deceiver,
confuses the halcyon birds,
the mothballs melt inside the coats
and those deserts commit suicide on the gallows
Skeleton remains of an unsought warmth.
A wolf roaming around
solitary
and screams in the forest
the weather
the empty moon.
photo by Pixel-mixer, https://pixabay.com
