The most wanted moon
was writhing...

He said creating a will
to become whole Being...

O viola,
go over the grapes...

In slap at your icarian path
the call was not taken...

Must I give you
the chilled truth of dry winds...

A whisperer with its begging bowl
wants a moon in alms...

Was that a robot
claiming friendship...

So my absentism will prevail
over presence...

I intuited.
Something had crept into...

Watching the descent
without god...

Again I would hear the night sounds
through the hours of civilities...

You go for a daily ritual
to water a passion tree...