A black butterfly
sprinkling the dust of its flutter...

"I love you for all the women I have not known"
(Je t’aime), Paul Eluard...

And this is me:
the Prometheus of poetry...

The black man Jazzes
Inferno tangoes my soul...

Tracing a wrinkle
I ended at far beyond...

Snows are gone.
blossoms...

Pure intents are free
From any uncertainty...

There is no bridge
of us any more...

When I do not find your black eyes
everything founders...

The bosoms of swollen meadows
drizzles...

It is not about the lines
it is about the capacity of silence...

Sometimes poetry bursts~~~~~~~Very often bubbles...
the bubbles of silence,~~~~~~~~~in the silence of...