In a death-trap of a stadium,
as if I am stoned to death...

Let's not go,
let's not reach anywhere...

A fugitive slice of moon
was preparing to leave...

Pigments on rocks were darkening.
Violence had permeated like skunk...

Nothing to do and
nothing to kill. Clouds will...

You are dying inside me,
my little god...

Under the tree of learning
of another life, the primitive father arrives...

Lift the rock once
again with cool thumb...

Walking the path with otherness;
not achieving anything...

You go down in the dry pool
foraging for the political errors...

In cohabiting
a self-denial said...

There was a portrait under the landscape.
Whispering of clouds...