A poetic hive without the bees of words,
The song that sings me out,
on the withered peduncle of a broken pencil,
behind the sweat of glasses
brimful of the flower breaths.
The papery greenhouse of this book
floriferous, coloured with fragrances of feeling,
from the comeliness candour of your words,
is overflowing.
And
on the protraction of these peduncles
a white dove
blooms
her white wings
on my fingers.
