I am going to lie down in your cat's cradle
but if I get entangled or fall...

That day in Stratford-upon-Avon...

I would approach my soul from yours,
opening the pockets of forgiveness...

He writes as if the tip of his muse's tongue
were searching stars in his ears...

My hair is black and
wild like my blood...

These fragile walls built between us
were made of dark fire and shame...

The Cave
Accostumed to a surrounding darkness we are...

The Craft
The Craft she learnt before she could understand...

He tried hard to anchor her
to the ground as if her mind would respect him...

When he left, he was 18
and didn't know that the road to hell was paved...

I stole the arms of the clock:
the hours can't overflow and engulf me anymore...

If I could learn how to be wise
as I sink my feet in my dewy garden...