When saline drowns the lips,
my words tremble...

Weep every don.
All the translations were fake...

I was not afraid of the clock, ticking,
dividing your attention. A guarded...

Unshackled, the pallor moon
was lying still, in a white...

Art of dying
comes, after...

It was a free fall.
A plot seems to thicken...

Trying to bring the change
with bleeding silver...

The thirst will know,
the river was there...

The evil city? You
become the smallest...

Sometimes, I want to write
a folk poem, without name...

Moisture was becoming
the strength of dry eyes...

A butterfly
in a bell jar...