It was always painful to remember the suicide
of a painter...

This terracotta urn
contains the ashes...

Anointed truth
had no path. Path...

During the litany of questions,
I will talk to you...

There was a lapse
before the fall of moon...

A crisp moon rejects the night,
the words retreat, like fallen truths...

There was left no middle,
of the path. It was a washed...

In war of attrition
with moon...

The contradiction
of winds on the tall dome...

A green hunt of words
does not dare to insert...

Plurality of the sin
slids across the sludge...

Self - immolating silence
softens the pain, an art of solitude...